Silk and Diamonds
by indiaga
Summary: FINALLY it's finished! 42 chapters, 9 months since it started. Hope you all enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Thank you, and goodnight
1. Beginnings

Tom is to meet me at Victoria at 1 pm sharp. I wait for 45 minutes, trying desperately not to let the growing alarm show on my face. Instead, I pretend to be sullenly irritated, and when I catch him moving towards me through the crowd, I turn and inspect a basket of roses clutched in a young girls arm.

"Would you care for a rose, miss?"

I am about to speak when Tom takes me by the arm and says to the child, "No, she would not." He leads me away through the bustling throng, towards a carriage waiting outside.

"Terribly sorry to be so late, Gemma, but the traffic was simple horrendous."

I say nothing, and he takes this as a sign of my forgiveness. He moves onto other things.

"How are you? You look well."

"Do I?" I answer sullenly, hoping he will take offence and stop trying to be so bloody amicable.

"Yes, you do, Gemma." He begins to help me into the carriage, but I tear my arm from his and climb in myself. I can hear him sigh under his breath, the patient, kindhearted brother, trying so desperately to aid that savage sister of his. The way he twists everything to suit himself infuriates me, and I find that I am glowering by the time I sit down.

"Gemma, I know that this move has come at a traumatic time for you ... for all of us ... but, if you give it a chance, I know that you will fall in love with England, just as I have. India is a fine place for young children, but young _ladies _ought to be here, where they can learn about the important things in life. I'm sure you agree."

I say nothing; instead, gaze out of the window at the cobbled streets of London. The sky is steely grey and an oily rain smears the windows of the carriage.

"Honestly, father says that you have been desperate to come to London ever since your 14th birthday, and now that you're finally here, you look so sullen!"

Again, I say nothing. What is there to say? That, yes, I have always wanted to come to London, but never like this? Never as the result of my mothers death? I am furious that he is making me feel guilty for my behaviour, which is, I have been told, a natural reaction to my mother's unexpected death. My eyes sting and blur, and I can feel, with frustration at my own body, tears pooling in my eyes. I remain staring unseeingly out of the window, hoping that Tom will not notice.

"Gemma, Spence is a highly respected finishing school."

"I've no doubt it is."

"Many of England's finest gentlemen send their daughters there."

"I'm sure they do."

"You will be amongst fine company ... you will be invited to balls, banquets ... it will be a wonderful step forward for the Doyle family.

I snap.

"Because that's all you're really concerned about, isn't it? The status of the blasted Doyle family! I wish I wasn't a bloody Doyle." My language is appalling, but I am too irate to care. Tom's face shows no sign of shock or disgust at my cursing; instead, he gazes coldly at me and his upper lip curls slightly. I know he has been practising this expression ever since he came to England, and, I am sorry to say, he has perfected it. I swear because I want to sound, to act, to feel like an adult, and I wanted to be treated as one, but his upper lip is all it takes for me to be 6 again, and blushing foolishly in front of guests at one of father's dinner parties, hideously embarrassed at my behaviour, hating the men and women laughing at me, mocking me. I am no more than a child in his eyes, and it stings so. I turn away, and the tears run like broken waterfalls down my cheeks.

I'm approaching the school, the carriage bumping over the gravel drive. Tom is checking at his watch, tutting meaningfully, and occasionally muttering something to himself about how late we are.

I care very little. My mother is dead.

"Gemma."

Oh dear. He wants to talk.

"Tom." I can play this game too. I'm not going to sit around like some meek little child, obeying everyone just because they expect me to. I'm going to make his life hell.

"Gemma ... I understand that this has all come as a bit of a shock to you."

"Well, no-one expects their mother to suddenly take her life, with no warning beforehand." I know this isn't what he's talking about. He sighs, glances out of the window, and then turns his gaze to me. His eyes are cold and hard.

"Gemma, cholera took mother, you know that. What I'm talking about is ... the school, the move. I know it must have been difficult for you. All I'm saying is that, however much you resent me at this moment in time, however much you hate Spence, however much you hate England ..."

What is he going to say? That he is sorry? That he loves me, wishes the best for me, only wants good things for me?"

"Please ... try not to embarrass yourself."

A snigger escapes my mouth at this point. How could I have been so naive? Tom, caring about me? Good gracious, no.

"What is so funny, Gemma Doyle?" He turns on me, with that strict fatherly tone I have never had to bear.

"What you mean to say is, don't embarrass you. Or father, or Grandmama, or the Doyle family as a whole. You don't care about me, you've made that pretty obvious, Thomas, darling."

My patronising tone stings him, it is clear. He winces, then reaches forward and grabs at my wrists. "Gemma, I'm afraid that that impertinent tone is going to have to be dropped here. They don't _have_ to have you, not like us. We're stuck with you, unfortunately."

Although this hurts, I'm not going to let him have to satisfaction of seeing me weakened. I smirk, turn away, and gaze out of the window. Tom says nothing more, and we approach the school in silence.

I care very little. My mother is dead.

"Miss Doyle ... _Gemma_ Doyle?"

"Yes, madam."

"Mrs Nightwing, thank you."

"Yes, Mrs Nightwing." I smile politely, morose at having been chided so early on in my time here at Spence. Her greying hair is tied loosely at the nape of her neck into an austere looking bun. Her gold rimmed spectacles perch precariously on the end of her nose as she pores over my papers. Tom shifts slightly, sitting next to me. With her displaying no sign of ever finishing reading, Tom stands awkwardly, and coughs.

"Mr Doyle?"

"Ah, yes. I am afraid I must take my leave now, Mrs Nightwing. I am urgently needed back in the city tomorrow morning."

"Of course you are. Would you like a minute to say your goodbyes?"

"No, that won't be necessary."

That's that part that hurts the most.

"Goodbye, Gemma. Be good."

And with that, he has gone.

I sit in silence a few minutes longer, marvelling at how, a moment ago, I was irritated by Tom's very presence, but yet now, when he has departed, I miss him, miss the security of his tall form beside me. It has accompanied me practically wherever I have gone, these past two months. I breathe in deeply, trying not to appear too curious or impatient.

"I am terribly sorry for your mothers death, Miss Doyle."

Why? It's not your fault. You didn't kill her.

"Thank you for your condolences."

I even irritate myself.

"I hope that your time at Spence here will help ease the loss somewhat."

"I am sure that it will." I smile wanly, the perfect grieving daughter.

"You will be with several girls of your age. There is one, ah, scholarship student, Ann Bradshaw. I thought I should let you know before there were any ... misunderstandings or awkward complications."

"Thank you."

"I also feel compelled to tell you that ... the woods, at the edge of Spence, do not belong to us. You may enter whenever you desire, but there are often gypsies camping there. I understand that several of the girls would feel uncomfortable at being ... amongst them, so they do not enter the woods at all. There is no obligation for you to; similarly, you are not forbidden."

I don't care about gypsies. I watched the darkness consume my mother, watched her wrench free from it at the last moment and plunge the dagger into her stomach. I watched the blood pool around her lifeless body, her blank eyes gazing unseeingly on my face. I remember the hem of her green dress drink up the ruby red liquid hungrily, like an animal, like a monster. I remember the screams, the cries, the shrieks.

I am not scared of the gypsies.

I am led silently to my room by a squat, bad tempered housekeeper. She points to the door, and then begins her way back downstairs. I sigh, shake my head, to disturb the panic growing in my throat, and approach my new home.

"Who are you?"

There's a girl sitting there, in front of a tiny chipped mirror, brushing her lank hair. Her watery eyes take me in, without displaying any sign of interest, of friendliness.

"I'm terribly sorry, I must have got the wrong room."

"I doubt it." She turns back to the mirror, lets out an almost inaudible sigh, and places the old hairbrush down on the worn dressing table in front of her. Now that I am over my shock, I do notice that there are two beds in the drab room. I know that my disbelief is showing on my face when the girl smirks, and says "You clearly must be used to silk and diamonds."  
I find this impertinent, but say nothing. "Which bed is yours?"

She does not answer, only points to the one next to the window. My new bed is in perhaps the darkest corner of all England.

"May I ask who you are, and what you are doing here?" She surveys my face impassively, clearly believing she has the upper hand.

"Gemma Doyle. And you are...?"

"Ann Bradshaw."

The charity case. Sorry, scholarship student. And, even though she has not been what can be described as pleasant to me so far, I still feel a little twinge of guilt. Mother always told me never to mock people for their wealth. Well, actually, she told me it was best never to mock people, if I could help it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bradshaw."

She says nothing, watching me unpack my belongings. My red hair falls over my shoulder, obscuring my face from her scrutiny.

"Where have you come from?" she asks suddenly, her fingers toying with the blanket on her bed. I sit down on mine, grateful for the friendly tone in her voice. Maybe she was just shy before.

"India. Bombay. You know it?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise how ridiculous they sound. A scholarship student, travelling to India? Of course not. Norfolk, perhaps. Never India.

"I can't say that I do." Although her face is pinched and pale, and her hair lies flat and lank against her head, she says this with a grace that astounds me.

"How long have you attended Spence, may I enquire?" I smile at her, but she drops her head and breaks the gaze. Her cheeks flush.

"Since my mother died. She was a maid here, and ... the circumstances of her death meant that it would have been churlish of Spence to turn me away." There is a bitterness in her voice, matched by the smile on her lips, which makes me immediately uncomfortable.

"My mother is dead too."

"Is that why you've come?"

I suppose it is. I was never to be sent away to England beforehand, as much as I wanted to be. And now, here I am, and I couldn't be more miserable.

"Yes."

"How did she die?"

I am shocked by the brazenness of her question. It hardly seems the thing that young ladies talk about. No, we are supposed to be interested in the weather, the health of the queen, who is getting married. We gossip over cream teas and cucumber sandwiches. Is this not how it is in England?

"The cholera took her."

Although I know this to be a lie, I am not going to tell this Ann creature the true circumstances of my mother's death. I can't say that I have taken to her. I can see Tom smiling smugly, pleased at this seeming to prove him right for what he has insisted to me ever since he came to London. _They are of a lower class, Gemma. A lower breed. You can't expect them to be like us. You can't expect them to like you._

"I am terribly sorry to hear that, Miss Doyle. My mother died in a fire. At this school. 16 years ago now."

Her frankness, once more, throws me. "You must have been very young."

"3 months. So, you see, I never knew her."

Lucky thing. I wished I had never known my mother. Then the grief would not push down on me, restricting my breathing, making any attempt at anything seem futile and pathetic.

And then she changes. Smoothly, almost imperceptibly.

"We shall have to go for vespers soon."

We gather in the hall. Ann has instructed me to change into the school uniform. A long cream dress, complete with corset. I must confess, although not to any of the other girls, I never wore a one in India. My mother did, sometimes, but her and father saw no need for me to. I was never aware of how much I valued my ribcage until Ann yanked at the ribbons of my corset and practically punctured my lungs.

I spy a group of girls who look to be my age. There are 5 or so of them, in one crevice of the circular room. Most of them look the same, not unpleasant, but nothing special. They were identical expressions on their faces, ones of restrained boredom. They must have been practising in front of their mirrors. There is one girl who catches my eye first. She is achingly pretty, with violet eyes and sleek brown ringlets. I can feel Ann gazing enviously at this girl, and I finally understand what it is to be jealous.

As I approach, I see a flurry of white blonde hair, and one girl emerges from the darkness. She is slighter than the others, and her hair, long and wild, flows like moonlight down her back. Her skin is china white, and her eyes, huge and grey, catch mine. She stops, for a moment, sizing me up. She smiles, a mocking smile, and then turns her back on me and returns to the catty laughter coming from within the nook. I sigh, and move on. Although her friend is beautiful, I can clearly see that this is the one I am supposed to look to, this is the one who I am to allow to lead me.

Ann catches me staring in their direction, and a smirk of resignation plays around her lips. "That's Felicity. Felicity Worthington. And her friend, with the dark hair, is Pippa Cross."

I pretend as though the girls bore me, when really I want nothing more than to be over there, with them, accepted, liked, wanted.

"Don't waste your time on them. They'll never look at you twice."

Although I think she meant it in a helpful, advice-giving manner, the bluntness of her words sting. I turn away, survey the rest of the room.

It is huge, with a marble flagstone floor, curving round to meet a grand staircase, leading the balcony overlooking the scene. The walkway stretches round the entire perimeter of the room, and I can see a number of girls up there, staring down below, and giggling at someone's hair, someone's dress. One girl leans over, topples precariously, and squeals. Her friend pulls her back with a thump, and laughter rings out once more.

There are several crevices in the room, like the one that seems to belong to the girls. Some are empty, but others have statues or flowers there, and others still are occupied by groups of girls, all younger than me. It really is a marvellous room, but what is curious is that I seem to remember it from somewhere. I frown, blink, and try to recall, but it is like trying to capture water with a net. The memory flits ahead of me, teasing me, mocking me, and I find I have to turn back. I feel a presence near me, and glance to my right, only to find the girl named Felicity standing there.

"You're new." The coolness in her voice makes me immediately defensive. It's like a challenge. _You're new. Prove to me that you're worth something. Prove to me that you're different._

I gaze back impassively, trying to match her expression, and agree.

"Gemma Doyle."

"Indeed. I expect you already know my name."

"No, I'm sorry. Who are you?"

I expect this to rile her, to make her flinch and feel snubbed, but instead she smiles, and laughs slightly. "Felicity Worthington. Of Admiral Worthington."

"Ah." I nod, and then add, "And who would that be?"

She laughs louder now, attracting the attention of several of the girls around us. The beautiful Pippa glances this way, and her eyes widen with what looks like pain when she sees Felicity talking to me. She turns back to her acolytes, who all seem to notice her distress, but, like proper English ladies, pretend they haven't, and go back to discussing something as interesting as drying paint.

"Ah, Miss Doyle, I think I'm going to like you." She smiles, and begins to walk back to her group. I notice that Miss Bradshaw has been watching this exchange with her mouth hanging open. Quite unattractive. I smile slightly at her, feeling childishly smug at having proved her wrong. She smiles uncertainly back, and then walks over.

"Goodness." Her tone is flat, expressionless, but I can see the disbelief, and the thing that looks like jealousy, in her eyes.

"Goodness gracious." I match her tone.

"Indeed."

And I think I am going to like Felicity too.

That evening, during free time, I expect Felicity to approach me again, but it is like our conversation never happened. She does not look twice at me, which seems to pacify her Pippa somewhat. The great hall is stiflingly hot, and so I decide to leave my reading and wander outside, exploring the grounds. I ask Ann if she wants to join me, but she shakes her head, mumbling something about feeling the cold, and so I leave.

I glance towards the forest, remembering the warning given to me by Mrs Nightwing earlier. Gypsies. I saw gypsies in India, and mother and I often use to visit them, exchanging money for handcrafted jewellery and beautiful scarves. Mother had no qualms about visiting such people, and she was as comfortable around them as she was around father's dinner guests. As I grew older, I tried to mimic her sense of tranquillity and affability, but it seemed affected and false. To be truthful, I was more comfortable around the gypsies than I was around dinner guests.

I wander into the woods, running my fingers over rough back and velvety moss. I hear twigs crack and snap beneath my shoes, and I can feel the sunlight, like silk, on my skin. It takes me an instant to react when a warm hand places itself over my mouth and a strong arm grabs my waist and pulls me behind a tree. I instantly scold myself for being arrogant enough to believe that these gypsies would accept me, that they were anything other than savages. I used to eavesdrop at my father study door, listening to the takes of poor women, unaccompanied and attacked by vile men. I know what happened to them, why no man would take them as a wife. This is what is to become of me. I try to scream, but the hand clamps tighter over my mouth. And then he speaks.

"Shh, please, I mean you no harm. I will release you if you promise not to scream. I have news, important news, concerning your mothers death."

My legs give way beneath me, and he tightens the arm around my waist. The heat slinks through my dress and reaches my skin, feeling like the dappled sunlight I had earlier been basking in.

"Gemma Doyle, listen to me. You are in grave danger..."

I know he says more, but I can feel myself slipping through his grasp, pulled under by some invisible current, floating in a warm cotton haze of feathered fish and flying dreams. I feel intensely calm, smooth as silk, fluid as water, nothing more than a dandelion clock, at the mercy of the winds. I know he is shouting my name desperately, shaking my ragdoll body, the fear sharp as daggers points in his eyes, but I do not care. I cannot care. The light from the lake pierces my skin, feeling as though I should melt, and I can feel it flooding my body, dragging me down into it's velvet depths. And I am here, and I am there, and I am gone.


	2. The Key is in the Silver

She comes to me, her red hair blowing in the breeze. She seems paler in skin but more vibrant in hair. Her features, which had before been so soft, were clear cut and vivid. She seemed distressed, her hands reaching out to me, her mouth moving. I try to hear what she is saying, but the breeze grows stronger, turns into a fierce wind, a gale, a storm. Rain falls, starting as a shower, almost indistinguishable from the breeze itself, but now raindrops fall like bullets, peppering my skin and dress and hair, so solid they hurt. She starts to scream, to point to something behind me, and yet I find that I am unable to look, unable to see. The storm is blurring my vision, the raindrops mixing with my tears of frustration. My dress it sodden, and the water runs in rivulets off my skin, but I hardly notice that at all. I notice my mother, standing screaming a warning out that I cannot decipher. Then the wind whips suddenly and I am cast to the floor, where I am held fast by a thousand invisible hands, over my nose, over my mouth, and suddenly I'm being dragged through time itself. I see the clouds, so fast they blur into one. I see the seasons, the leaves on trees blooming and living and falling and dying, blooming and living and falling and dying, bloomingandlivingandfallinganddying. And suddenly I'm back, on the floor of the forest, crunching leaves beneath my head and my arms and legs thrashing wildly. He is holding me down, his entire body pressed into mine so that I cannot move. His hand is still over my mouth, and as I still and my eyes open I can see the terror in his.

"Gemma, Gemma, please."

I begin to slow my breathing, which is an almost painful process. His hand retreats from my mouth, but as I prepare to start screaming, it reaches back out again and catches me by the throat. I have never been so terrified in all my life.

"You dare scream, and I will kill you right here." He pulls out a silver dagger, which glints as the autumn sunshine hits the blade. He places it slowly, deliberately, under my ribcage, angled in.

"So, Miss Doyle, do you want to call my bluff?"

The fear and concern that had flooded his eyes is now gone, only to be replaces by something cold and sharp and hard and harsh. Danger. He pushes my head back to the ground, and I whimper slightly. He does not release me; instead, he laughs quietly and digs the blade ever so slightly harder into my stomach.

"I have news concerning your mothers death, Gemma Doyle, and you better listen to it, otherwise you will die. Do you understand? You. Will. Die."

But I cannot concentrate on that, because, if I close my eyes, I can see her again, and this time she speaks to me and I can hear her.

"Find her, Gemma. Find her. Tell her I'm sorry. Oh god, please tell her I'm sorry."

He releases me when the tears form: he thinks he has hurt me more than he had meant to. He pulls me roughly to my feet, but I just collapse again. He sighs, and pulls me up into his arms, before carrying me back to the edge of the forest.

"Gemma, I will be seeing you soon. And I'm afraid that I will be carrying my knife at all times, so ... be warned." He drops me to the ground, turns, and walks off.

Dinner is uneventful: it would take a great deal to unnerve me after the events of the evening. Ann sits shyly next to me, and I fear I may have made an unwanted friend, but I am polite enough. She seems to be more amicable than earlier on, and tells me about the traditions and habits of Spence girls. I listen, nod occasionally, and smile when she makes small jokes. I find that she is rather clever: she tells me that the other girls in the class tease her for it. I learn about her too: how her favourite colour is purple and that she has always wanted a pet rabbit, and that she hates her weight. In exchange, I tell her about my life in India, and, as the meal wears on, I find that I have most of the table captivated. I am confused, at first, because I cannot believe that I am the most interesting person at the table, but it soon becomes clear that the girls know about as much about India as they do about manual labour: that is to say, very little. My stories are like foreigners to them: they regard them curiously, half disbelievingly, and become wary of me as a result. But they are equally in love with the stories, each dripping with colour and spices and life. It seems that England is perhaps the most dull and uneventful place on the earth, with the possible exception of Mrs Merrifield's home back in Bombay. By the time we have finished, I have almost everyone in the room spellbound. Of course, not Felicity. Even though Pippa seems to be casting yearning glances at my table, she remains with her friend.

"Miss Doyle, it would seem as though you have rather a knack for storytelling." A tall, thin lady approaches me. I glance up, and smile. She is very lovely, with unruly dark curls, pulled back messily into a bun. She wears glasses, and a welcoming smile. "I am Miss Moore." I mumble something about it being wonderful to meet her, and she laughs. "I am sure." She says, irony dripping from her words. "You probably find me as boring as England. I just wanted to tell you that I am a teacher here at Spence. I teach art. It will be very interesting having a new face in my classroom. Do you enjoy the subject?"

"Yes, greatly. I am not so sure if my talent reflects this, though."

She laughs again, assures me that I am probably wrong, and retreats. Ann mutters something about Miss Moore being a breath of fresh air here, the only decent teacher. I am glad she seemed to like me, and I liked her a great deal. She seemed the kind of woman who wouldn't be shocked by anything, who you always knew would listen, who you are knew would believe, who you always knew would care. I watched her back as she leaves, and I wonder if my assumptions are right.

After dinner we have a little more time to spare. Ann makes for the great hall again, clutching her book, but I tell her I feel tired after the activities of the day, and I make my way back to the bedroom. I pass a couple of the younger girls on the stairs, who are yawning and stumbling into one another. I feel a wave of loneliness overcome me, and, as I close my door, I sit in front of the mirror and weep. I weep for my mother, my poor darling mother, her unseeing eyes fixed on something distant and dead. I weep for my father, left widowed and broken hearted, sitting solitary in his study and nursing the laudanum until it sends him into a cotton wool floating feathers drifting dreams sweet slumber. And I weep for myself, for finding myself here at this gloomy school in gloomy England, with my mother dead and my father ill and my brother cold. I weep for the vision of my mother screaming and crying and pointing, and I weep for her voice inside my head begging for someone's forgiveness. I weep for my helplessness, my hopelessness, my utter lack control over anything anymore. I weep because of the terror that I bottled up inside myself through dinner that now comes out in folds and floods and leaves my body curiously empty and hollow.

I look up, my eyes twinkling with the remnants of tears, and that is when I see him, sitting on the floor behind the changing screen. I gasp, for he is looking directly at me, with a peculiar expression on his face. He sees this, and stands suddenly, moving forwards towards me. I step back, terrified, and, tumble over onto my bed. He advances, undeterred by my whimpers of fear, and I back into the darkest corner of all England as he towers over me. I try to step, but quick as a cat, he is upon me, his hand over my mouth. He is straddling me, his dagger out and ready at my neck. His hand pushes me down into the blankets, and as much as I squirm and struggle he is unmovable.

"I told you I would be seeing you soon, Miss Doyle." He sits on my hips, pinning me down, and his eyes bore into mine as he leans down, further and further, until I can feel the whisper of his breath on my neck.

"Do you promise not to make a sound?"

Feeling helpless, I nod, and he seems satisfied. He jumps off of me gracefully, landing directly between me and the door. I am trapped, and he knows it.

"Miss Doyle, what did she say to you?"

His question catches me off guard. I am light-headed, and I find it a struggle to sit up. He is back, pulling me into a sitting position, and repeats his question.

"How do you know? How ... who are you? How do you know my name? How did you know my mother?"

He smirks, presses the knife close to my body once again. "I am asking the questions, Gemma."

"She said... she said to find someone and tell her that she was sorry."

"That was it?"

I nod.

He sits back, gazing pensively at me for a second.

"Gemma, I knew your mother because I am part of an organisation that ... your mother was not as she seemed. You had a..." Here he stops, shakes his head. "That is for her to tell you."

"What was that shadow, that blackness, that almost got my mother?"

"That is what I was trying to protect her from."

The rage bubbles up inside of me and I find I am powerless to stop it spilling out. "Well, you didn't do a very good job, did you? She's dead!"

"You think I don't know that?" His voice breaks, and I wonder if he feels regret. Feels remorse. I gaze upon him, and I find that I am seeing him for the first time. He has darkened skin, an olive colour, and I wonder if he is from India. His glossy hair falls in curls around his ears, down his neck. His eyes are huge and black, achingly hard and meltingly soft at the same time. I notice, a curious feeling growing in my chest, that he is handsome.

"Are you Indian?"

He glances up at my question, but then shakes his head. "Not originally, no. I have lived there a long while, protecting your mother. But I am from the gypsy camp in the forest. That is how I know her."

This confuses me, as I did not think my mother had any connection with this place. Perhaps I am wrong.

"Gemma, your mother made a huge mistake. One she has been paying for ever since. She was never able to undo her wrong, and I am afraid that the responsibility has now passed down to you."

I think for a moment, wondering what my mother could ever have done. She was perfect.

"I don't want this responsibility. I have no obligation towards it. Or you."

He laughs bitterly. "I am afraid it is yours, whether you want it or not. There is something about you, something special. I do not know what it is, but ... your mother made it very clear that you had a path that you had to travel. You have to fix something. She spoke of wonderful things, marvellous things. The realms, true freedom, things we could never know here. Something had happened there that she had never forgiven herself for. You have to go and mend them. That is the first step."

He spoke quickly, but I understood none of it. My mother had always seemed magical in my eyes, but she had been so sensible and practical and calm. She listened to the Indians as they spoke of their magic, but I knew that she never really believed any of it. She was the one who convinced me that there was no monster under my bed or witch in my wardrobe. She lived here, in this world. She believed that there were no others. She didn't believe in any such thing. I know she didn't.

"I'm afraid she did, Gemma." My head twitches as he says this. I hadn't been speaking out loud.

"That doesn't mean that I can't hear you."

I stare at him in fear, and try to clear my mind. Pathetically, my mind races out of control, thinking wild things, marvellous things. I think that he is handsome. His head glances towards me at this and he smiles slightly.

"Thank you."

I force my mind to think that I hate him. He flinches slightly and says softly, "I never meant to hurt you, Gemma."

"Then what was the bloody dagger for?"

He raises his eyebrows at my language, and smirks infuriatingly once again. "It was for protection."

"Mine or yours?"

"Both."

We sit silent for a few minutes longer. I clear my mind and try to consider what he has told me, but my mind keeps wandering.

"How can you do that? See inside my mind?"

"It is a skill I learned through a lot of practise and even more dedication." He turns towards me. "I can block it out, if you would prefer."

"I would indeed."

My mind feels deliciously calm and empty. He is gone, at least from there.

"Your mother had one more message for you." He looks towards me and I ask, "Which was?"

"The key is in the silver."

My blood runs cold, and he silently leaves.


	3. Cat Got Your Tongue?

I sleep restlessly, going over the events of the evening like a letter that I know holds a secret. I try to remember what I saw, what I felt, but whenever I try to reach out and grab, it darts further from my fingers, like the fireflies I remember chasing along the streets of Bombay. My mother rules my dreams, surreal imaginings and real memories intertwining until I am utterly awake and utterly confused. _The key is in the silver._ I know exactly what she means, but I will not face it. I cannot face it.

Morning comes too soon, strangely enough, and Ann wakes gradually, before finally standing and slipping behind the screen to get dressed. I lie in bed a little longer, but she comes to wake me and I can no longer pretend that I am sleeping.

I feel that I cannot face the day ahead. School lessons and snide girls, forcing that polite smile onto my face when I am spoken to. Ann seems to sense my mood, and backs off, slowly. Muttering something about breakfast being in 15 minutes, she leaves, and I am alone.

No, of course I am not. When was the last time that I was allowed my privacy?

"Miss Doyle." It is not a question, but a statement, and, as I sit, I forget that I am only wearing my nightgown. Pulling the blankets up around me to preserve my dignity, I gaze upon his face once more. This triggers something in my mind, and I realise that I do not know his name.

"Who are you?" It is the one question of mine that he did not answer last night. He ponders this for a moment, staring suspiciously at me, as if I might use the information against him in some way. Eventually, he gives in.

"Call me Kartik." He approaches me, thinks better of it, and then edges towards the window. "Last night, I am afraid that I left you quite ... abruptly. Forgive me. I only returned this morning to make sure that you were ... alright."

"I'm fine, thank you, but I would be even better if you were to leave. Now."

He nods, draws back, and then throws something my way. It is a piece of paper, and, instead of reaching out my hand to catch it, I watch it as it spirals towards the floor, caught on the ebbs and flows of the air in the room. When I look up, he is gone.

Resisting the temptation to pick up the paper immediately, I instead wash, dress, and make to leave. I can feel his eyes on me, and I do not wish him to believe that I am interested in whatever he has to say to me. Or whatever he has to throw at me.

When I am sure that he is gone I grab the paper from the floor and slip it amongst the folds of my dress.

The lessons are uneventful, verging on boring, but Ann seems notice to notice. She takes neat little notes in her perfect handwriting, and I can hardly think why. Then I realise that she is not like me. She is not one of us. She is being educated so she can become a governess, or some such thing. She needs all the training she can get. I jot things down occasionally, but I am afraid that my head is far too busy with other matters to allow myself to concentrate fully on how to fold a napkin or how to curtsy elegantly.

But then comes Art.

Miss Moore welcomes us each, and for the first time today I actually feel as if I have been noticed. As if I am wanted.

Felicity, to my surprise, approaches me, and sits demurely at the desk next to me. I can sense that this is not her usual seat, because there are stifled whispers reaching my ears from the back of the room.

"Girls, please."

Miss Moore smiles, and then gazes out of the window. "As you are aware, I usually run a very tight ship, but seeing as we have a new girl with us today, I am going to create the illusion that I am actually a compassionate human being, and I am going to allow you to do whatever you like. As long as it is loosely related to art." She smiles again, and there are murmurs from all around me, as girls begin collecting pencil and paint, chalk and charcoal. Felicity studies the activities of the girls as if they irritate her, and she then turns towards me. Beckoning me, she rises from her desk and moves towards a corner of the classroom, where a collection of paintings stands.

"Miss Moore, would it be alright if I studied these paintings, and drew what I could from them? As inspiration, you see."

Miss Moore gives her a cynical glance, but then relents. "As long as your next painting improves."

Felicity smiles, victorious. "It most certainly will. Gemma, darling, would you come and look at them with me?"

I am startled at her friendliness, her intimacy. Miss Moore looks to me, and I find myself agreeing.

Once we are settled in the corner, Felicity points to one of the paintings and then says, "So, Miss Doyle, where did you disappear to yesterday evening? I saw you head towards the woods, and then ... well, quite frankly, it looked as though you were aiming to find the gypsy camp." Her facial expression differed greatly from what she was saying, and I realised that she was looking intently at the painting, trying to seem as though she was mesmerised. I must say, she impressed me.

"I was simply exploring." I reply, nodding my head as if I agreed with her last comment about the picture in front of us. She looks towards me then, and laughs.

"Gemma, darling, I was right. I am growing to like you. Very much. And if I may ask one personal question...?"

My hackles are raised, but I answer pleasantly enough, "Of course."

"What exactly was that gypsy boy doing in your room last night?"

The blood freezes in my veins. I can think of no excuse or lie that would seem innocent enough to satisfy her. She notices my silence and turns towards me again. Her mocking smile is back in place, and she knows she has me cornered.

"Cat got your tongue, has it, Gemma?"


	4. Like A Mockingbird Caged

She knows what she holds in her hands. One word, to anyone at all, and she could destroy me. She is torturing me, and she is enjoying it.

Eventually I choke out, "How did you know?"

"I step lightly." She smirks triumphantly. "It's a most useful trait."

I chew my bottom lip, bitter panic rising at the back of my throat.

"So ... who exactly was he?"

But Miss Moore is approaching us, and we fall silent, pretending to study the paintings.

"So, girls, any ideas?"

We gaze up, having apparently been lost in thought. Unfortunately, neither of us have any clue at all, and we sit smiling hopefully up at her.

"Girls?" she says, and her voice is stricter now, a warning.

"Um ... well, it's ... it's made of paint?" I venture, and I can feel Felicity exploding into stifled giggled next to me.

"Indeed, Miss Doyle, it would seem like this painting is made of paint. I would have thought that obvious from the name. Anything else?"

We say nothing until she tuts, rolls her eyes, and moves on. Felicity is now laughing louder, and I find myself joining her. For the moment, I revel in this deliciously wicked, blackmail-induced friendship. I realise that it is the first time I have laughed – really and truly laughed – since the death of my mother.

That evening, Felicity slips away from her friends and beckons me. Reluctantly, I follow her, and find myself walking along the edge of the forest.

"You know, there's a lake in there." She motions towards the trees, and I nod, unsmiling. It seems almost painful – I know why we're both here, and so does she. She's knows what she's doing, and she's enjoying it.

_I remember watching a child in India. He had a glass jar and caught a butterfly inside it. Trapping it with his hand, he smiled in delight at his newfound power over the helpless insect. It fluttered desperately inside the jar until I could bear it no longer. I knocked it from his hands, and the glass shattered amongst the dust. There was a flash of peacock blue, and the butterfly lay dead, crushed under a glinting shard of glass._

_That is how I feel. Like a butterfly caught, like a mockingbird caged. And Felicity is the child, drunk on power, addicted to the rush, trapping me with her silent stepping and cruel manipulation. And I wonder if I am to have the same fate as the butterfly._

_Everything I touch seems to break._

"So ... who exactly was he?" she asks, smirking saucily.

"I'm going to tell you something, but, before I do, you have to promise not to tell anyone else." As soon as the words are out, I realise how futile they are.

"And why on earth do I have to promise that? I don't owe you anything." That mocking smile is back in place: she is sure she has me trapped. And, for the moment, I know that she is not wrong.

"Well, then, you don't find out." It's a desperate try; I myself can see the loophole. She could simply lie.

"Gemma, I wouldn't be playing any games if I were you. You are in enough trouble already."

And then I see it, a flash of colour, like a cloak slipping round the corner of an Indian street. My heart aches for home, but I know what has to be done.

"If you promise not to tell, then ... I'll take you with me."

"Where?" the confusion does not show on her face.

"It .. it will all become clear."

"She sighs. "God, this better be good. I promise." I can see, out of the corner of my eye, that she is looking to me, to see whether I react for her Satanic cursing, but I restrain myself and remain coolly composed.

"And you promise to believe me?"

She raises her eyebrows. "That's a bit more complicated."

"Promise!"

"Fine. I promise."

"Alright. Alright." I take a deep breath, and begin. "My mother is dead."

"She is?"

"Yes."  
"Of what?"

I open my mouth, to instinctively say "cholera", but instead clench my fists and choke out the words, "She took her own life."

Felicity doesn't gasp, or pause, or stop walking, and this, surprisingly, makes me feel better than all of the kind words and sympathetic smiles and condescending glances that I have received since mother's death.

"Why?"

"She ... she ... she was being ... attacked by something – this shadow, this pool of darkness. It was ... swallowing her up. But she got free at the last second, and.." It is not necessary to continue. Felicity says nothing.

"I guess she knew what it was and knew that it was worse than death."

Felicity looks and me, and I cannot decipher the expression on her face.

"Anyway, I ended up here, and... I went for the walk ... and he surprised me. He said he knew something about my mother's death. He had to tell me something important. And then... I had a... it was like I had fainted. I saw my mother, and she was screaming something and pointing at something I couldn't see. We were in the middle of a storm, and then, suddenly, I was back. But then I heard what my mother was saying. Something about finding someone, and telling her that she – my mother – was sorry. He told me he would see me soon, and then left me. Nothing happened until, like you saw, I went upstairs after supper and he was there. He made me promise not to scream, and then he told me everything he knew. Well," I amend, thinking back, "Not everything. There was one thing he didn't tell me, saying that someone else was going to. It doesn't matter. Anyway, according to him, my mother and he belong to ... organisations, groups of some sort. My mother had made a mistake, long ago, and it's now my responsibility. But ... it was ... she made the mistake in another..." I stop, take a deep breath, and continue. "In another world."

Felicity stops now, and turns to me.

"I didn't hear the conversation – between you and that boy. All I saw was him sitting on top of you on the bed."

I blush crimson as I let the implications of this sink in. The door was directly at the foot of my bed, and so Felicity could not have seen the hand over my mouth, the knife at my neck, and the terror in my eyes. Instead, she saw me and him intertwined on the bed.

"It wasn't what it looked like. Not at all."

She smirks, but I know that she is only doing it to infuriate me. I swallow, and gaze back at the school, the smooth slate roof shining in the cold sunlight.

"Please say you believe me." I turn to her, and grab at her wrists. I can feel her pulse through her near translucent skin, and stare at her grey eyes nervously. "Please."

"I believe you. But you still haven't answered my original question. Who _was_ he?"

"He originally belonged to that gypsy tribe – the one in the forest – but he lived in India, secretly protecting my mother. He says to call him Kartik."

Felicity is silent for a few moments, and then turns back to me, a wicked smile forming on her lips. She leans in to me, so close I can see the pulse flicker in her neck, and says, "Gemma, darling, I want to meet him."


	5. He Finds Me

Her words resound in my ears before I can finally think of a response.

"Felicity, I don't find him. He finds me."

"Well, that creates a bit of a problem, then, doesn't it? I might very well have to run back to the school and tell Mrs Nightwing that I caught you and some gypsy locked in a passionate embrace yesterday evening in your room. Perhaps then you could find him, yes?"

I flinch at her calm tone. It's like she has a dagger of her own, pressed against my neck.

"Gemma, darling, don't be scared. I'm sure we can find him." She laughs melodiously, satisfied by the look of pure terror on my face.

I glance back, once more, when I hear footsteps. I can see Pippa hurrying after us. There is a pained look on her face, as if she is trying hard not to let the tears spill down her china white cheeks.

"It's Pippa."

Felicity sighs meaningfully, and then turns back to face her. "Pippa's a big girl, she can take care of herself."

But evidently she could not.

"Fee, darling, where on earth did you disappear to? What are you doing with..." She doesn't say any more but we all know what she means. _What are you doing with her?_ It stings.

"Pippa, I was merely taking a walk with the most congenial Gemma Doyle. Is that alright with you?"

Pippa is trapped. Felicity knows perfectly well what Pippa is thinking, what Pippa is feeling, but I know, before she even open her mouth, what the beauty will say.

"Quite alright. I was just worrying about you. It's cold at this time of night. I think we should be getting back."

Felicity glances at me, and something indefinable passes between us. Pippa notices, but says nothing, just presses her lips tightly together. Then they turn their backs on me and walk back up the hill to the school.

That night, as I dream, I arrive at that place where I last saw my mother. She is alone, solitary and desperate. The floor is sandy, but pure white, and the sky is brilliant white too. There is nothing, as far as the eye can see, apart from my mother. She is wearing her green dress, and her hair seems wilder. She has taken it out of her bun, and now it flows freely down her back, curling and spiralling like a fiery waterfall. Her huge green eyes are imploring, melancholy and broken, and I realise, now, that it is no longer my mother. I am gazing upon myself.

"Gemma, please, you have to find her." I turn, trying to escape the figure of myself before me. It seems so desolate, so completely and utterly hopeless, that it breaks my heart a little.

"Gemma, darling, it's not your fault. But it is your responsibility. I am sorry, my darling, but it is. Find her, and free her. Then you can begin. Then it will be pure." She is back in front of me, and, as I look at her face, her porcelain white skin, her glass green eyes, her ruby hair, she sees it. Behind me. She opens her mouth and begins to scream, and her eyes reflect the terror she feels inside. She in standing there, spellbound, unable to move, unable to escape. She is simply screaming. And it chills me to the bone to see myself so frightened.

Sorry this one is so short but have to go and wash a car.


	6. Wandering With That Worthington Girl

The next day, Kartik is not there when I wake. He is expecting me to answer to his note, which, following the drama of the previous day, I have completely forgotten to read. Hoping I have not missed anything important, I open the note and my heart sinks.

_Meet me tonight. 8 o'clock. Beside the lake._

I bite my lip, wondering when I will see him next. The answer is very soon.

"Why the hell did you not do as my note requested?" I turn, frightened, as he clambers through the window. I notice a rip in his shirt, and an angry red line through it.

"What happened to your chest?" I ignore his question, trying desperately to come up with a suitable reply. _I was taken terribly ill. I was held captive in the school by pirates. I didn't know where the lake was._

Ah ha.

"What was the lake? Where was it?"

He looks disgustedly at me, his eyes scornful and furious. "I saw you, my dear Miss Doyle. Wandering with that Worthington girl as if your own desires were more important. You are to do as I say! I thought I made that clear."

I swallow, feeling stupidly like a chastised infant, caught playing with her mother's pearls and perfumes. I know that I am blushing, and I feel ridiculously like tears are forming in my eyes.

"Gemma, listen to me. You may not believe what I tell you, but I am sorry to say that it is all true. You are in danger, and unfortunately, I have the wonderful task of making sure you're not harmed. However much I may want to harm you myself." I glance up, hurt by his cold words, but I see a spark of laughter in his eyes and I relax a little.

"All I wanted to ask you was whether you knew what your mother meant by the message."

"Which message?" We both know perfectly well what he is referring to.

"The key is in the silver."

I am irritatingly silent until he grabs at my wrists, like I had Felicity's last night. I can feel my pulse under his thumbs, and a curious sensation begins in my chest. It is like I am falling.

"Gemma –"

"I know what she means."

He lets go, and I am almost disappointed. "What?"

Shakily, I pull a small silver locket out from under my dress. "My mother gave this to me when I was born. Unlike most lockets, it is not one you can just prise open. It has a lock." I showed him, and he peered intently. The fluttering in my chest started once more. "She had the key, and told me that I could only open it when she died. I used to ask her more often, but as I grew older I stopped. I accepted it. She said she had a message that I could not know until after her death. I had always assumed that it was something sentimental, like a message of her love, but ... that was what she used to say. The key is in the silver. When I asked her what on earth could be so important inside, she would smile slightly and say 'the key is in the silver'. When she died, I forgot about finding the key. Funny how your mother's suicide can change your priorities slightly." I let out a bitter laugh. "It was given to me, I suppose, amongst her possessions. When you gave me the message last night, it was the first time I had heard anyone say that for about 5 years."

He is silent. Unless he has more news, opening the mysterious locket around my neck was the next step: otherwise, I had no clue where to begin.

"Do you have the key?"

"I ... I haven't looked for it. I don't want to."

His rage explodes out of him then, so suddenly it alarms me. "I have had enough listening to you and what you want and what you don't want. This is not about you. You're just the vessel."

My breath catches in my throat as he says this. "What do you mean?"

"The magic is _in_ you. _You_ are not the magic. Where is the key?"

Shakily, I fumble through my mother's belongings. I come across her purse, the leather soft and worm beneath my fingertips. I close my eyes and inhale the scent of my mother. Light, like spring. I had always thought she smelled just like rose petals, unfurling at dawn to reveal perfect droplets of dew. But now, I realised, there was something else. An undertone of something darker, richer. Cinnamon, perhaps.

I opened the purse, and the tiny silver key fell into my open palm. I tried to fit the key in the lock, but I couldn't see what I was doing, and I missed several times He approach me, his irritation clear on his face, and took the key and locket from me. The sensation was almost overpowering now. I felt as if I was about to faint. He seemed to notice the fluttering of my eyelids, because he looked up from his work and his eyes immediately grew wide and worried.

"Gemma-"

But I was gone.

I am falling, falling through water, perhaps, because my movement seems silky and graceful. I try to stop, but I am powerless. I can feel arms around my body, laying me down gently, but I cannot respond. I don't want this, I've never wanted this, pull me back, please, oh god, pull me back. I close my eyes because the myriad of colours above me is so vivid and bright, but they are forced open once again because of the pressure pushing down on me. They grow stronger, more powerful, until they turn into colours that I do not recognise, colours that I cannot name. I try to scream, try to catch them, try to stop, but I am floating, suspended in magic and dewdrops and honey and daydreams. The colours twist and turn, take shape, and suddenly I see Felicity. She looked so out of place, so pale and yet so powerful, that I have to tell myself she is really here. She approaches me, that wicked, mocking smile on her face, and says something so quietly that I almost cannot here.

"Surrender to it. Let it take you."

And I stop resisting, and I can see a girl. With red hair and green eyes and pale skin, but it is not me, nor mother. She looks up, sees me, and smiles, although I can see the tearstains on her cheeks, making her waxy and ethereal.

"Gemma, oh Gemma, how grown up you are! You look so much like mother. Where is she? Has she sent you? Oh, Gemma, is it time? Is it really and truly time?"

Kartik is shaking me violently when I return. I have collapsed onto the bed, still as the dead, and I find that my limbs and sense are so much heavier than before. It takes me so much longer to think, to act.

"Kartik. Where are you?"

"I am here."

But then the scream fills my head, that long, empty scream, and I realise that the pressure growing in me is so great that I must scream too. I stiffen, arch my back, and close my eyes, but he is too quick. His hand is over my mouth, pressed so tightly that I cannot make a sound. The pressure is immense now, and I have to tell him, I have to get him off me, but I cannot. My eyes are wide and wild, and, as they meet his, they stick. For one long moment he delves deep into my thoughts again and finds the one that I wish him never to see.

_I fell because of you._


	7. But A China Doll

Throughout the rest of the day, my thoughts are on the Fall this morning. I listen numbly, answer monotonously, and probably seem sullen and hostile. But I do not care. My mind keeps running over everything he said, everything I felt, and the one thought of mine that he found.

_I fell because of you._

He pretended he hadn't found it, but relaxed his grip a little. I was able to scream, the sound muffled by his palm, and I grew strangely quiet and calm. I lay still on the bed, and he had to shake me to get me to move.

"What did you mean, I'm just a vessel?"

"You are late. I will be here this evening. Come up after your lessons are complete." The word 'lessons' makes me feel immature and childish. White-hot hate pulses through my veins, angry at how he knows how to hurt me, disarm me, make me vulnerable again. He tosses the key at me, and, quick as a bird, my hand is out, catching it. The jagged metal slices into my palm, and I gasp as the nerves scream out indignantly. He wraps the cut with cotton torn from his shirt, and I notice once more the wound on his chest.

"What happened to you?" I motion towards his torso, and he grimaces slightly at the memory.

"I had a ... run in last night. Nothing that concerns you." He snubs me again, and this time I react.

"Stop treating me like a child, Kartik. I'm 16 years old. Stop patronising me and I might warm towards you a little."

"I don't care whether your feelings towards me are icy cold, Miss Doyle."

I wrench my hand from his, and leave.

Felicity does not approach me during the day; nor does she sit with me at supper. However, when I head towards the stairs once more, she catches sight of me and, quick as a dagger, is upon me.

"Going anywhere ... interesting?" she smiles innocently, but I am in no mood to humour her.

"Unfortunately not, Miss Worthington. I am feeling rather drained, so, if you will excuse me."

"What if I have no desire to excuse you?"

"Well, then, Miss Worthington, I will have to excuse myself." And with that I carry on up the grand staircase, my injured hand stinging as it trails along the banister. I know that she will follow me, but it gives me a sense of achievement at not having bended to her will.

"Miss Doyle, I am going to accompany you to your room whether you like it or not, because, as I am sure you will recall, I am rather anxious to meet this midnight visitor of yours." She whispers it in my ear, her voice slick with confidence, and I finally understand the power she holds over the weak and cheerless creatures in the hall.

"Miss Worthington, I will arrange a meeting between you two, but first I must tell him. He can get quite ... violent. Angry."

"Well, then, I shall just have to watch my step." She smiles teasingly, and my mind races. What will he do to me when he sees Felicity? What will he do to her?

But, all too soon, we are outside my bedroom and Felicity walks smoothly in. I hear a cry of surprise from inside, and then a strong, brown arm tugs me ungracefully in also.

"Miss Doyle, may I enquire as to what you were thinking?" His voice is cool and smooth, but the hand around my wrist tells another story. He is furious, and he is trapped.

"Miss Worthington saw our conversation 2 nights ago, and ... I had to tell her everything. She knows it all." This is a slight lie. She does not know about the events of this morning, and for that I am glad.

Felicity watches the exchange between us emotionlessly, and I can tell that Kartik is being made to feel uncomfortable. He glances towards her, as if she is but a china doll, and then drags me to the bed. I can see a smile hovering over Felicity's lips, and then she sits languidly on Ann's blankets. Kartik stares at her as if she is a wild animal, and is unsure of whether she is going to pounce.

"So, Kartik ... Gemma was telling me all about your little romp in the woods, and the episode on the bed." I blush, for she is making it sound as though I shaped the truth to make it slightly more interesting, and slightly more scandalous.

"Was she indeed?" There is no smile on his face or in his eyes, and it makes me shiver to think of what he will do now that he feels caught. "Gemma has a habit of dramatising events to make herself more intriguing." He glances towards me, and I struggle against the hatred flooding his eyes.

"Felicity is the one exaggerating, I am afraid."

She turns on me now, her grey eyes flickering with danger. "Oh, was I, Miss Doyle? Perhaps we better consult Mrs Nightwing on the matter."

Although this threat is growing no less dangerous, the effect of it is beginning to wear off. I turn away from her and say to Kartik, in pleading tones, "I didn't tell her anything ... remotely..." I trail off, my fingers unconsciously twisting and tweaking my blankets in desperation.

" Miss Worthington, delightful though our meeting has been, I am afraid that I need to talk to Gemma alone."

"Oh, well that would be convenient, wouldn't it, Gemma? I wonder what is so desperately important that my presence is uncalled for?"

" Felicity..."

"No matter." She flicks her hair back, smiles provocatively at Kartik, and begins to sashay out when Kartik springs like a cat from the bed and bars her way.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asks, superiority dripping from her voice.

"Making sure you don't open that pretty little mouth of yours." He advances on her, and, for the first time, I see Felicity frightened. She glances towards me, her mouth slightly open in surprise, her eyes imploring, begging. Then I realise that I have a way to change everything.

"Do you promise not to tell anyone what I have told you, and what you have seen?" My voice is firm, and she waits but a second before whimpering her agreement.

"Kartik, step down."

But he ignores me.

"Kartik."

He turns on me then, a flash of something I do not recognise in his eyes. "What, Miss Doyle? Do you control me now, then? Is that how it is?" But he leaves her, and she shakes silently by the door, breathing deeply to try and regain her composure. But she knows now that there is no going back. Although I have taken the advantage from her, in the form of Kartik, I have something else, something vastly more valuable.

I know what makes her frightened.

That night, when I dream, she is there once more. The girl, who I do not know, and who yet knows me, is calling to me.

"Gemma, my darling, how grown up you are! How _beautiful_ you are! My, you look just like mother. How is she, Gemma, darling? How are they all? Little Thomas, dear sweet Thomas, he must be almost 20 now! And father ... how is he? Does he still laugh the same? Do he and mother ever talk of me? Ever think of me?"

I want to answer but I do not know how. My mind is racing. How can I visit this place in my sleep, oh so willingly, and yet how does it have the power to drag me under whenever it wants to?

"Gemma, the key is in the silver! Remember that. You must open the locket and then all will become clear."

I wake with a start. The locket! I had forgotten, and so had Kartik, in the drama of the moment. I sit up in bed, listening to Ann's heavy breathing, and pity her for a moment. How is it that she will never have a chance to be anything? Who make these rules that leave her crying into her pillow every night? I hear her, of course I do, but, being a proper English lady, I leave her, say nothing, cause her no embarrassment.

The locket hangs heavily around my neck. I never used to notice it. It was so light. But I fumble, lighting a candle and rifle through my mother's belongings, finding the small leather purse once more. The key is back there, clearly put by Kartik in a moment of compassion. I will open it myself, I decide. And, after 5 minutes of fumbling and silent cursing, the locket is open, and a scroll of tightly furled paper falls into my lap. It is thin and yellow with age, and I am terrified that it will crumble amongst my fingers, but it is surprisingly thick and sturdy. The candle flickers, and the writing is thin and spidery, so I have to hold the flame almost close enough to burn it, before I can read what it says.

_The locket is the key, and you are the lock._

I furl it back up, secure it in the locket and twist the key once more. And then I sleep the deep dreamless sleep of the dead.


	8. You Are The Lock

"The locket is the key, and you are the lock." I repeat the message to a confused Felicity the next morning. She chews her lip and then looks sideways at me.

"Gemma, darling. You know dear Pip..."

"What about her?" I say, trying not to let my irritation shine through. I smile pleasantly and tilt my head until I'm the perfect English lady. Felicity regards me coolly for a moment, before bursting out into an uncontrolled peal of laughter.

"Oh, Gemma, darling, you should see yourself! You look positively like a meek little wife." She leans forward, and places an arm intimately round my waist. I blush at the contact, for the only arm ever there has been my mother's and father's. And now Kartik's.

But that doesn't count, I remind myself.

"Anyway, Pippa ... Pippa says she would like to meet you. Properly."

"You mean she's jealous that you have a new friend. I thought she was supposed to be 16, not 6." The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. Felicity, I can see, knows that I speak the truth.

"She has been my dearest friend since I arrived here, Gemma. You have to understand that she ... she and I share a special bond."

"So ... what are you suggesting?" I gaze through the windows at the sky ... the watery sunshine trickling down from the clouds, and warming the frost that has gathered on the grass. I can tell it is going to be a bitter winter.

"Perhaps ... we ... form a group? Like the ones that your gentleman friend spoke of. It would be fun, and she would be pacified."

I don't bother to reply, just glare at Felicity until her skin begins to smoulder. Almost.

"I'm not suggesting that you tell her everything, but we could steal away and have some fun of our own. What do you think?"

I know what I think. I think that it is a very bad idea, but a deliciously bad one, like midnight feasts and flicking ink and laughing as loud as we can. Small rebellious acts.

"Alright. But ..." and here it is my turn to look abashed, "Ann will join too."

"Ann ... Bradshaw?" The incredulity is clear on Felicity's face. "I refuse."

"Then I'm afraid that the people in your little group will consist of yourself and Pippa and that is all."

Felicity thinks quickly. I can see the cogs of her mind whirring. I can almost feel the pulse of her hatred and passion and mockery and wickedness flow through my veins, until I cannot separate us, until we are one being, flowing through clouds like the purest of water. Oh god... it's happening.

Felicity does not seem to notice my eyes fluttering and my breathing quickening. I try to remember what it feels like to be there, but I cannot block it out. I see Felicity again this time, and she is smiling. A true smile, not one stifled and shaped by etiquette and society. Not the pleasant, demure smile of proper English ladies. She is dancing, but I cannot see where. And then ... I wish to see. And I do.

She is in a garden, of sorts. It looks too wild to be anywhere in England, yet the flowers and animals are quintessentially British. She has a butterfly in her hand, and then closes her eyes. When she opens them again, the butterfly has gone, but she herself has grown beautiful, cobweb thin wings. She laughs in excitement, and floats above the ground, before swooping towards the waterfall, barely visible amongst the lush green of the garden. Then I see the girl again, the girl who claims to be my sister. She looks paler, more drawn, and I can see a hollowness in her eyes, grey and bleak and hopeless. She looks slowly up, and seems to see me somewhere, even though I cannot see myself.

"Gemma, I cannot wait much longer. You have to save me. Please. Else I travel to the Unknown, just like the others."

I am back, so quickly and suddenly that I am disorientated and frightened. I grapple with Felicity's small, white hands, trying to escape from her cold fingers, pressed so firmly against my skin I think I will freeze.

"Gemma? Gemma!" Her eyes are wide and worried, but I see a flash of understanding in them. She came. She saw. She knows.

"Gemma, who was that girl? What was wrong with her eyes? They were dead."

I lay still and silent for a minute, until I regain myself completely, and then turn my gaze on Felicity. "I don't know. She says to be my sister."

"She looks like you."

I smile wanly, trying to escape the gnawing dread in the pit of my stomach. "Come, we have Art, and your next painting must improve."

Miss Moore smiles at me as I enter the classroom, and then her attention slips to Felicity. "I am presuming that you have been practising your Art, Miss Worthington."

Felicity smiles guiltily, and Miss Moore looks away, and I wonder how it must feel to have that complete power over someone.

"Class, today we are going to be discussing, not drawing. I think it would benefit nearly all of you here in the room." She looks pointedly at Felicity, who stares ahead of her, that mocking smile in place.

"Miss Doyle, perhaps. Could you tell me what it is that makes a piece of Art special to you?"

I falter, and press my nail into the soft skin of my palm as I try to think of a suitable answer. "It has to be interesting. Something important must be being addressed in the painting. If it is just a pretty picture, then it is pleasant, but I will not remember it. If it is dark and scary and ugly, but has a meaning, I will be drawn to it."

My teacher seems to gaze at me for longer than appropriate when I finish saying this. Her eyes take on a dreamy, far-away look, and I wonder if I have said the wrong thing.

"That is brilliant, Miss Doyle. Perhaps Miss Cross should follow your example."

Pippa looks horrified when she hears her name being called out, but she answers smoothly and dully, as if she has been practising in front of her mirror. "To me, Art has to be pretty. It is all very well to say that Art has to have a meaning, but no one wants an ugly picture hanging on their wall. I want to learn how to paint pleasant pictures, not pictures that mean something. No picture means anything. They are just paint or pencil."

Miss Moore seems hurt when Pippa says this. She breathes out slowly, and then turns to hand out paper and paint. "Pippa, paint something pretty for your parents to forget when they come for Assembly Day." And I am sure that it was not a slip of the tongue.

Felicity, Pippa, Ann and I are sitting in the middle of the great hall, crossed legged and nervous. Pippa is wearing a bored expression on her face, and then hisses to Felicity, "I thought you said this was going to be fun."

Felicity stands, and then walks to an alcove in the great hall. "Come here. It will be more private, and we don't want Brigid sneaking up on us." We meekly do as she says, and, as I stand, my locket falls from my nightgown. Ann spies it curiously, always hypnotised by pretty things, things of wealth and riches, but says nothing. Before I can tuck it back in again, Felicity is upon me, her nimble fingers undoing the clasp at the nape of my neck.

"Felicity, what on earth-?"

"The key is in the silver," she says, mocking me. "And I wish to find the key." She places in down on the floor, the chain spilling around it as it falls. Pippa gazes at it longingly, and I wonder why the other girls feel compelled towards it, almost as if it were calling them.

"Here's what we shall do," Felicity instructs. "We shall sit in a circle around the locket and hold hands. Then we will feel the power."

Pippa starts to giggle, followed uncertainly by Ann. "What power, Fee? Does Gemma think that her necklace is magical?" I can feel myself blushing furiously as she mocks me.

"No. I do." Felicity answers, rather abruptly, and Pippa is silent. Ann hiccups, and goes back to gazing bleakly at the marble floor.

Although I feel ridiculous and childish, I join hands with Felicity and Ann.

"Close your eyes and concentrate on the locket." Felicity instructs, and I know that we all obey her. After sitting like this for a minute or more, I open one eye and then glance around our circle. Nothing has changed. The locket is still gleaming on the floor, and felicity knows it. Her hand clenches tighter on mine, and then she lets go, suddenly.

"We're doing it wrong. Perhaps we have to say something. Or keep our eyes open."

"or perhaps," pipes up Ann, rather sardonically, much to my surprise, "The locket isn't magical, and we are being foolish."

"Well, goodnight then, Miss Bradshaw, and I hope you sleep well." Felicity speaks calmly, but I can feel the ice in he tone, and so can Ann, who falters, and remains put.

"Maybe we should touch the locket. I've always been touching it when I've ..." But I trail, off, aware that I have already said too much, and also aware that Ann and Pippa's eyes are burning into mine.

"Let's each place a finger on the locket," says Felicity, and I finally realise that the locket, and the power, isn't mine anymore. This is Felicity's group, and, if we find the visions again, they will be Felicity's. Although they scare me, and I hate them, I do not like the idea of this curious china white creature taking them from me.

But we do as she says, and this time, I can feel it humming through me. I wrench my finger away, and the other girls look worriedly at me. "What?" Ann asks, looking at the locket as if it were about to burst into flames.

"Nothing. It's just ... cold, that's all." But they know that I am lying, and Felicity places her finger once more on the metal. Ann and Pippa do the same, but I shy back, wary of the electric heat that pulsed through me the last time.

"Gemma ... don't be scared. It's just a locket." Pippa's singsong voice infuriates me, and I find myself obeying her just to spite them all. The humming starts immediately, and I know they can feel it too. But this time I will stay, and this time they will see.


	9. Evelyn

The ground gives way beneath us and I can hear the screams of Ann and Pippa as they fall through the walls of reason, as I have done so many times before. Felicity, I can see, feels powerless but unwilling to show it, and so I hold on and pray that we will not die.

We seem to melt into the garden beautifully. There was no second of understanding as we hit the grass, and we could not tell the difference between the Fall and being here. Ann lies shaking on the ground, and I know that her cheeks will be wet and her eyes watery. Pippa is lying silent on the grass, very poetically, with her legs askew, and one arm flung across her chest.

"The little sleeping beauty, " Felicity intones dully, and for the first time I can see that she hates Pippa, and yet loves her still. I wonder why Pippa is so motionless, and then an icy cold shiver runs through me.

"Pippa! Pippa! Are you alright?"

She sits up blearily, her ringlets perfectly framing her pretty face. She glares coldly at me, and then turns to Felicity. "What on earth happened? Where are we?"

Felicity does not have an answer to this, I know, and yet she so clearly wants one. "Gemma brought us here."

Pippa turns to me, wide-eyed and furious. "Where are we? I want to go home!"

"But why? It's so beautiful here."

We turn to Ann, who has finally sat up and stopped sobbing. She is looking around, the pinched and drawn expression on her face finally gone. She looks almost lovely as she sits and gazes about her in wonder. The waterfall is closer now, roaring and rushing down the craggy rock as if it were chasing some unknown prey. It is almost close enough to touch, and it looks so cool and clear and calm that, without realising it, we all begin moving towards it. It twinkles and sparkles in the sunlight, and I hop and jump nimbly onto rocks slippery with water and moss. I am almost there, ahead of the others. I can feel the gush of the water, so close to my fingers, let me touch it...

"No!" The piercing cry reaches my ears as my fingers hover but inches away. The others stop in their tracks too, and we all strain to see who has spoken.

"Come away from it! Come away from it now!" the girl who claims to be my sister is standing on the edge of the river, her eyes wide in terror and alarm. Feeling like naughty children, we made our way to the springy grass on the bank.

"Why couldn't we touch it?" This, of course, is Pippa, as spoilt and petulant as ever. The girl looks earnestly at us all, and her eyes linger on Ann.

"Is it poisoned?" Ann asks, looking nervously at the river now tumbling past us.

"No ... sort of. Not to me. But to you. You mustn't drink it."

I can see Felicity's rage growing. Never has she been denied anything she ever wanted. But I place an arm on hers to placate her.

"Who are you?" I finally have the time and the voice to ask the question that has been plaguing my troubled mind ever since I first saw her.

"Evelyn. Evelyn Doyle." My face drains of what little blood is there. "I believe you know my mother. Virginia Doyle."

"Gemma, this _is_ your sister." Felicity can barely contain herself, but I hear none of it. This girl, so similar to myself, and yet so different, is my sister.

"Mother always said that if she were to have another girl, it would be a Gemma. And, if you were a boy, you would have been Osbert."

Felicity's witty, "Well Thank God she wasn't a boy," passes over my head. This girl looks no older than me, and yet I never had a sister.

"But –"

"I never got to see you. Darling Gemma, how I've missed you. Dear little Thomas was quite alright, but there's nothing like having a sister. I knew you would be beautiful. More beautiful than mother, certainly more beautiful than me."

I have never been called beautiful before. This girl is pretty, but her hair is straighter and darker, her eyes less green. But she has the most radiant smile.

"Oh, Gemma. Could I –" And she leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

Ann and Pippa seem bored by the girl, and instead begin exploring the garden. There are flowers everywhere, even some hanging suspended in the air, and we can see them opening and closing, unfurling and then curling back in on themselves. There is a crooked tree, one long bough hanging horizontally, close to the ground, and Ann finds her way there. Pippa, meanwhile, apprehensively prods at a flower, and jumps back in shock when it twitches and becomes a bright blue rabbit. Felicity has not moved, and I can see her trying desperately to not let the surprise and joy show on her face.

"I'm terribly sorry, but you... you must be mistaken. I never had a sister. I was stuck with Tom."

She laughs, and she sounds just like mother. I stare in shock, trying not to let the tears of sadness and fear well up in my eyes.

"Oh, darling Gemma, have I upset you so?" She places a warm arm around me, and it feels so much like mother that I cannot stop myself. Since her death, I have had to tolerate the awkward arms of father around me, the stiff English gentleman's arms of Tom, Felicity's cold hand around my waist, and of course the strong arms of Kartik, but never since have I been embraced like my mother.

"Gemma, what is it?"

"It is mother."

"Is she unwell?"

I look up in horror at her words. Of course she does not know. Why would she?

"Mother is ... Mother is dead."

Evelyn's arms fall away, and she takes a step back in dull surprise, and my mother has left me all over again.


	10. Black Holes

**It's in a different tense because she is remembering, not because I am stupid :D**

The journey back was a haze. I remember watching Evelyn run from me, seem to disappear into the waterfall itself, becoming nothing more than the clear cold stream of icy poison. Poison...

Pippa and Ann were sitting together on the tree, their legs swinging and their eyes shining with this new secret, this delicious knowledge that brought us together and drove us apart. Felicity was nowhere to be seen, and my chest constricted as I thought of all that we did not know here.

"Fee! Fee!" I could feel the panic bubbling up inside of me, threatening to fill my lungs and freeze my heart. I glanced around me wildly. Pippa could sense my unease and slipped off the tree to join me. "Where is she?" she whined, her fingers unconsciously knotting and unknotting the skirt of her dress.

I caught sight of what seems like a wall made entirely out of plants. Branches and stems snaked upwards, fresh green leaves softening the effect. I ran to it, and realised that it was just a thicket of hanging vines. I gazed upwards, trying desperately to see where they came from, but they twisted and spiralled up out of sight. Pushing them aside, I stopped in my tracks and felt my heart cease to beat.

She was there. My bare feet sank into the white sand and the brilliant light seared painfully into my eyes. My mother was there, hollow and broken, the tears staining her cheeks and the chill sapping her of hope. Felicity was facing her, her white blonde hair loose and tumbling down her back, her hands and feet painfully pale. She was just staring at my mother, her fingers hanging loosely from her arms, perfectly still, perfectly silent.

"Fee!" Pippa raced to her, tugging on her hand, and then screamed.

"What? What is it?" I followed, grabbed felicity and spun her around. Her skin was paler than ever before, paler than could be imaged, fading into the light as if she were dissolving into it. Her hair was almost luminous, longer and wilder and harsher than before. Her lips were blood red, open slightly in the most perfect pout. But her eyes were what chilled me to the bone and sucked the air from my lungs. Her eyes were huge, wide and blank and black. Her pupils merged into her irises with no distinction. I let go, stumbled back from her. And then she opened her mouth and screamed. It was raw, terrifying and wild. Her eyes, blacker than Indian ink, were fixed unseeingly on something we cannot imagine. Ann joined us, clutching Pippa in newfound trust and friendship, and for an instant I wondered if she ever feels hopeless, grasping at straws, terrified that anything she touches would turn to dust.

I knew instantly what I had to do.

"Close your eyes!" I screamed, over the wind whipping around us and the rain beginning to fall. I tore the locket from where I had replaced it around my neck, and, grasping it in one hand, tell Pippa and Ann to lay a finger on it. I could already feel the humming, pulsing through me like my blood had been replaced by something blood and wicked and powerful. I grabbed Felicity, overcoming my fear of the black holes of her eyes, and concentrated on the alcove of Spence. I have never wished so hard to be home.

We are back, tumbling over one another in our panic and confusion and haste. Pippa and Ann are locked together in a mess of hands and feet and writhing terror. Felicity is lying still on the floor, her eyes closed. Part of me wishes that she will never open them again, so that I never have to see the blackness and bleakness and emptiness of the world. But I have to wake her, have to make sure she is back. Our Fee is back.

Her eyes open, and for a second I truly believe that she is still flooded with the darkness that terrified me to my core. But her true eyes are back, the mocking, grey eyes of Felicity Worthington, admiral's daughter and wicked schoolgirl, petulant brat and adventurous friend. My friend.

But is she still?

She seems the same, powerful and serene. "What happened back then? Where did I go? Who was that woman? Your mother?"

The questions are unlike her; she usually pretends to hold the answer to everything in her porcelain palm and knowing grin. Pippa and Ann ignore her, mumbling something about feeling tired and dancing the next day. I help Felicity to her feet, and for a second, in the wavering light of the candle, her eyes are black once more, and her grin is feral. But I remind myself that it is a trick of the light, and watch as the shadow of the boy named Kartik disappears from the window of the hall. I no longer care that he watches me. I care for my life.


	11. Impertinent Eyes

**This scene is pretty ... different, but I had to include it because Gemma's getting sexually frustrated.**

Ann is fast asleep when I return to our room. I am bitterly surprised, jealous that the evening's nightmare will wash off of her skin as easily as soap. It is already racing for my heart, slicing up my veins and turning my insides black.

I sit in front of the mirror, breathing deeply, telling myself that it was a dream, a nightmare, anything but real life. I can feel my hand shaking as I pick up my hairbrush and drag it through my wild red hair, cursing for the umpteenth time that my hair is not smooth and perfect like Pippa's. It tumbles down my back in mad spirals and twists, almost straight in some places, tightly curled in others. My skin is painfully pale, almost as pale as Felicity's, and my eyes are a bold and penetrating green. _Such impertinent eyes, _I remember my grandmother saying once, when I was but nine years old. _No man will want to wake up to your accusing gaze, Gemma dear. _

I stand, and, glancing at Ann to make sure she is deeply asleep, begin to undress. My dress slips to the floor, cascading around my feet as if I were a waterfall myself. I have trouble taking off the corset, and I whimper and curse as my fingers become entangled amongst the laces. But finally it is off, and I am left in my chemise, and that is when I hear a slight cough and turn to find Kartik looking sheepish, sitting on the floor behind the screen.

"Oh my -! What on earth -?"

He steps forwards, but I find I cannot move. My arms will not even protect myself from his invasive stare. I find I am slack, powerless to defend my dignity. My eyes are locked on his as he approaches.

"Miss Doyle, I am so sorry. I simply ... there was no good time to announce my presence. I am truly sorry. Please forgive me. Please." His eyes lower to the ground submissively, and my fingers fly instinctively to my locket. As soon as my fingertips touch the silver of the necklace, the metal begins to hum, burning and pulsing through my veins until I can no longer help myself. I can feel the raw power flowing through my body, leaving me peaceful and calm and drowsy. I tear my fingers from the locket but realise that the feeling has not left me. I can almost taste the sweet slumber of my pillow, but I know that sleep is not what I need. I need to feel alive. I need to...

He is almost at the window when I speak his name. "Kartik." He turns, his eyes instinctively going to the floor to shield my modesty. "Yes, Miss Doyle?"

"Kartik, I think I am..." I look down at the hand with which I clutched my locket, and, to my surprise, I can see it glowing and shimmering in the flickering candlelight. It almost glitters with the magic coursing through my body, and I gasp in surprise and delight.

"Kartik, look!" I realise I am speaking loudly, but I cannot help myself. The humour of the situation catches me off guard, and I find myself helpless to stop the laughter spilling out of me, like an overflowing champagne bottle, smoking and sparkling and bubbling over.

"Miss Doyle, what is the matter with you? Having you been drinking?"

"No, my dear Kartik, I have not. I went, I saw it all. I saw myself, the power and the beauty and the death and the light. I saw my mother and my sister and Felicity's eyes were flooded with the blackness and –"

"What? What did you say?"

"I saw my mother." My vision is blurring, fading into something more twinkling and ethereal and beautiful. Kartik's face looms above mine, his long, thick lashes framing his worried eyes, his skin, like velvet, so soft to touch. I know that I am stroking his cheek, murmuring nonsense into the press of his hand against my mouth, and I know that he is carrying me from the room, from the school and into the woods. I know that we are at the lake that Felicity spoke of, the lake where the mermen live, where the fish fly and the dreams dive and my skin sparkles like moonlight on silver.

"Miss Doyle, what happened? Where did you go?" His arms are underneath me, one curved underneath my back and the other in the crick of my knees. He places me gently down on the soft forest floor, where I gaze rapturously up at him, smiling lazily. I know I am being foolish, but I do not care. I cannot care. My mind is a thousand places all at once, I know what he is thinking, what he is thinking...

He gasps as I invade his mind. I pick out random thoughts. He is worried about me. Thinks I am drunk. Thinks I am wild. He often thinks of home, of the organisation that he belongs to. He has a task, a task to do with me...

"I think you'll stop there." His words, cold and hard, block me from any more investigating. I roll around, giggling foolishly, unable to help myself. "Kartik, my dear Kartik, you are beautiful in the nighttime."

He leans down and lifts me. I feel his surprise at how light I am, how his slender arm fits around me perfectly. I am back in his thoughts, but once more, he pushes me gently out.

"Gemma, you must tell me what you saw. Where you went." His face is above mine, and it is all I can do not to reach up and kiss him. I want to know what his lips, his mouth, his tongue tastes like. His thumb lightly touches the concave of my knee and this is all he has to do to make me realise that I have to find out.

His gasps lightly in surprise as I press my lips to his. He is warm and smooth and petal soft, and I smile as I rest my head back in his arms. He lays me once more on the floor, and again his mouth is irresistibly close to mine. But this time, I do not lean up. He leans down. I feel myself sinking, melting, and slipping into the forest as his body warms me. My thin chemise is all I have on, and I can feel my limbs shivering in voluntarily. He notices, covers us both with his cloak, and then his hand is on my waist and crinkling the chemise up, my thighs dangerously naked. His fingertips run along my skin and I press into him and then he stops, stands, lifts me roughly, and sprints swiftly back to the school, the dull, repetitive, monotony of school, and I hate him for it. And I love him for it.


	12. That Gypsy Boy Of Yours

**Thank you SO SO SO much for all the positive feedback I've got on this... especially from InfiniteReverie and ThreeOranges. This one's quite long because a lot of this get sorted out here. Hope you enjoy. P.S. always appreciate reviews!**

I wake feeling curiously light and giddy. My limbs seem as unstable as those of a newborn lamb, and I laugh at Ann's expression of incredulous surprise when she tries to stand and instead falls to the floor heavily, like a sack of potatoes.

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Bradshaw, it's just that..."

"There was nothing funny about that at all." She uses the bed to right herself and bades me try. I find that I can stand, albeit shakily, and reach out to help her up.

"What on earth is wrong with us? Are we ill?" Her face becomes pinched and pale, and I realise that she did not have the same experience that I did last night. She wasn't alive and glowing golden, the moonlight wasn't a gossamer blanket, Kartik wasn't rough and smooth, both at the same time... Kartik. What happened? I try to remember, but the scene flits teasingly close to my fingers, then darts off again, into the blurred caverns of my unreliable mind. I sigh, forget, and instead collapse several times during dressing.

We clutch tightly to the banister as we enter the dining hall. Spying Felicity and Pippa sitting at the middle table, surrounded by adoring acolytes, Ann turns to me.

"Where shall we sit?" And I realise that it is now 'we', whether I like it or not. And to my surprise, I like it.

"With Fee and Pip," I say boldly, and Ann smirks at my intimated use of their nicknames. Felicity sees us, and shoos the other girls away, making room for us next to her. Pippa, for once, is smiling. Not in the nasty, spiteful, catty way that I have seen so many times. Properly smiling. Infuriatingly, it makes her look even more beautiful. But Fee is the one that I cannot take my eyes off. Her pale skin seems to be glowing with life and energy, and her hair is the colour of burnt silver. Her eyes, huge and grey, are sparkling with our wicked secret, and for once I feel as though I have been accepted.

"We must go again tonight," she hisses to me the moment I sit. "Wasn't it the most wonderful feeling? Me and Pip could scarcely stand this morning!"

"Neither could we," I say, invoking the word that has Ann smiling privately down into her breakfast.

"Promise? Promise we can go?"

I hesitate, and Felicity sees the answer in my eyes. "Why not? Why not?"

I don't want to tell her, and either do Pippa or Ann. We sit silently, fingering the hems of our dresses, none of us daring to look Felicity in the eye.

"Pippa? What is it? Gemma, what's going on?"

I look up, and for a second I revel in the power that I hold over Felicity. Her face and tone are trying desperately to regain composed, but there is a flicker of desperation in her eyes, and this makes me smile.

"Because, Fee, something happened to you last night. You ... wandered off or something, and came to that place. The one I told you about ... your eyes went all black, and you were screaming, and ... my god, fee, you were terrifying."

She doesn't say anything for a while, and instead returns to daintily picking at her meal. I can see the hatred and resentment burn fiercely in her eyes. She was the weakest of us all, she realises now. And there is nothing she can do about it.

"I don't know what it was, Fee, but you were looking at my mother, and ... it could have happened to anyone."

"But it didn't."

"No."

Felicity rises quietly, and returns to her room. Pippa begins to follow her, but Ann catches her eye and she reluctantly sits down. I gaze at the two of them, and a feel a twinge in my stomach as I realised that a bond is being forged, and I will be alone once more.

Miss Moore gazes intently at me as I enter the classroom. I shiver, as I can still feel the magic coursing through my veins. I wonder if she can see it, if she hasn't closed off her mind to the possibility of there being more than tea and cakes, and ballroom dances, and proper curtsies. But I smile at her, and take my seat. Fee is nowhere to be seen, but our teacher does not question her absence. She doesn't seem to care.

"Class, today we are going to be discussing magic."

A chill runs through my veins and she, once more, fixes her eyes on me as if I am the artwork she is analysing.

"Miss Moore, I for one want to be doing something. Painting or drawing or SOMETHING. My parents are not going to appreciate me having discussions, if I've nothing to show for it."

Miss Moore seems not to hear Cecily's whining tones, and instead smiles broadly.

"Miss Doyle, do you know anything of magic?"

I can still feel the magic buzzing in my blood as I make my way to the great hall after dinner. Fee grabs my arm, and I turn in surprise, for I haven't seen her all day.

"Where on earth have you been?" I whisper, for I can feel the beady eyes of Miss Temple on me even now.

"Exploring. No-one asked after me, did they?"

"No. Where were you?"

She grins wickedly, exposing her pearly white teeth. She leans close, and I can feel her seductive tongue in my ear.

"Amongst the gypsies."

I gasp, and she smiles triumphantly. She is back there once more, the powerful one, the one that takes risks and breaks rules and shocks us all.

"I went to find that gypsy boy of yours."

"Why?"

"Because I saw him yesterday returning you to your room in the middle of the night."

A few days ago, a statement like this would have turned my blood to ice in my veins, but now I only smile slightly at Fee and slip an arm around her waist.

"Something happened last night. Something ... strange. I didn't have a chance to tell you this morning, and then you disappeared all day, and ... I don't know how you didn't get caught."

She pulls me into a corner, and her eyes glint as she spies Ann and Pippa making their way over to us.

"Quick, tell me now."

"I ... I touched the necklace. Kartik was there. I touched the necklace, and then my blood started pulsing through my veins, and I could feel it. I could feel everything. I knew everything. Some of the magic had come back with me. I felt dizzy and drowsy and ludicrously happy. I think I started laughing, but Kartik took me to the woods because he was terrified I would wake someone up. I can't remember what else happened. It's all a..." Blur? Not quite, not any more. It's like I know what's happened, but my mind won't accept it, refuses to acknowledge it. I wonder what could be so wicked.

She frowns slightly, and then grabs at my wrist again, drawing my closer. She speaks quickly, every so often darting glances at the approaching figures of Ann and Felicity.

"I asked some of the gypsies about the school. It turns out there was a fire here, in the tower, 16 years ago. 4 girls died. Apparently, they had been dabbling in magic, one of them said. And another said that they weren't really dead, just _trapped in another world_."

I don't know how to respond to this. I don't know where it fits in. but clearly Felicity has an idea. I begin to ask her, but she shushes me with a finger on my lips/

Pippa and Ann have arrived now, and they are smiling and glowing with this newfound friendship. Fee glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and I feel that twinge again. She sees it too.

"Gemma, darling, may we go back? Please?"

I am taken aback that Pippa, sweet, selfish, cowardly Pippa, wants to return to that place. Ann nods along, with her eyes wide and pleading, and I find myself agreeing, even though I do not want to.

"What time shall we meet?" Ann, as always, the sensible scholarship student. We decide on an hour, and then settle down in the alcove, close and warm and together, talking and laughing and whispering and giggling over our newfound power. I find the worry and trouble ease out of me, like someone is unwinding a coiled loop of string, until I am straight and flat and smooth and here.

Mrs Nightwing, I know, will be glancing in our direction every so often, smiling at her ability to mend and mould students to her will. She has made me friends; she has let Ann be accepted. She is in control.

We know she is wrong.

The candle flickers as me and Ann make our way to the great hall. Felicity and Pippa aren't here yet, and so we settle and sink into the marble floor. Ann sweeps her hand across the smooth cold stone, and her eyes glitter with something. Longing, perhaps. And I get that feeling again, the feeling that I know this room, I have been here before, and then I see my sister again. She is cold, alone and broken, the tears slipping down the grime coating her face. Her hair is paler, weaker, and her eyes are dull and dead. And I know I have to go, and I know it must be soon.

Felicity and Pippa come soon, and I hear a soft clinking sound, like water hitting harbour walls. And I wonder at this, for I have never seen a harbour.

Fee produces from behind her back a glass bottle, 3 quarters full with a black liquid.

"What on earth is that?" Ann recoils, nervous and shaking.

"Rum. There was some in the kitchen. One of the places I visited today." She looks victorious, and I have to wonder at what sort of childhood she had.

"Rum ... isn't that a spirit?" Ann whispers hoarsely.

"Well done, Miss Bradshaw." Felicity does not look up as she unstoppered the bottle and took an unladylike swig. From the impassive expression on her face, it was clear, at least to me, that this was not the first time she had tried rum.

"Miss Doyle, care to take a sip?"

The answer was no. I didn't want to. But I knew that I was going to.

The liquid burned its way down my throat, leaving me raw and warm and strangely light. I wanted to cough and cry, but Felicity's eyes were upon me, and so I composed my features into something resembling indifference.

"Miss Bradshaw?" I offer the glass, swinging is slowly back and forth like a pendulum, teasing her, mocking her. I can see her thoughts whirring at full speed. Is it worth it? To be accepted? Is it?

Finally she grabs the bottle from my hand and takes a small sip, grimacing as it made its way down her throat. She splutters, and Felicity's lips curved in a hateful smile. Pippa takes a small sip next, and then it is back to Felicity, and once more to me.

After a while I began to feel light headed and curiously floaty. Everyone shimmers and ripples before my eyes, and I find myself giggling foolishly at the most banal of things. I am joined by Felicity, and soon we are close, our bodies pressed against each other. I think back to last night. Kartik's body pressed against mine. This is friendship, close, solid, true friendship. That was something different. Hatred, danger, lust...

"Lust, Gemma?" Fee smirks, and I realise that I have been speaking out loud.

"Who do you hate?" Ann inquires, her hair glowing before my eyes. They all twirl and loop and dance before me, and I find myself laughing merrily on the marble of the hall, the cold pressed against my cheek, the shadows whispering my name.

I jerk upright, and the smiles fade from their faces. "Gemma, what is it?" "What spooked you so?"

I don't know how to answer, so I relax once more. Just a trick of the light, and too much rum, I remind myself. Fee is close to me, and I rest my head on her shoulder, slumping sideways oh so gracefully. My necklace falls from my chemise, and Pippa catches sight of it.

"Are we ever to go?" she questions irritably. She and Ann have not drunk so much, I believe, and she is growing tired of Felicity and I.

"Of course, my dear Miss Cross." I stumble to my feet, leaning heavily against the wall, and untangle the necklace from my hair. Tossing it to the ground, I rejoin my friends, and we each place a finger on the locket.

The light and sound and time drowns us once more, but I close my eyes and think of the garden and then we are there.

Once again, the waterfall draws us close, but we drag ourselves away, remembering the words of the girl who calls herself my sister. She is on the bank, cheerful and smiling, her arms out and her heart open. She seems to have forgotten all I told her. She seems to have forgotten mother.

"Gemma, darling, you came back! Oh, I did miss you!" She embraces me, and I sink into her, no longer caring whether she is real or not. She smells of mother, and I inhale deeply, causing her to laugh, and release me.

"Am I smothering you, Gemma, dear?" she takes my hand and leads me to the tree where Ann and Pippa became friends and changed it all. It seems so long ago.

"Gemma, darling, I have much to tell you. You have to hear tonight."

I don't speak, but dumbly follow her. Pippa and Ann and Felicity move off, their eyes trailing to the hanging vines obscuring that hellish place from sight.

"Fee, remember: stay away." Evelyn calls out to my friend, and I frown in bewilderment. How does she know her? Why does she say this?

"Gemma, darling, you must listen closely. You have a task, I know. This will help you."

I watch Pippa and Ann and Fee as they settle to the ground, smiling and laughing and turning pollen into butterflies and butterflies into raindrops and raindrops into diamonds. I long to join them, but my sister needs to speak to me, and I wish to understand it all.

"Gemma, I was sixteen when you were born. Well ... not quite. I was dead when you were born, but there were sixteen years between us."

My sister is dead. The words fall heavily through my heart until they hit the bottom, jarring me and causing me to gasp involuntarily.

"Gemma, darling?" her eyes are large and loving, and I bade her continue.

"I was a pupil at Spence, and I have reason to believe that you are currently residing there." When I nod, she continues. "I had four dear friends. One was beautiful, one was clever, one was wild." The words sink in, and suddenly, it all makes sense. My sister, my sister and her friends, were the four girls who died at Spence. Only they didn't die. They were trapped. Here.

"Where are they?" I ask, glancing around, as if expecting them to coming creeping out from under a bush, the boughs of a tree.

"It's complicated. My beautiful friend was destined to marry a man she despised. My clever friend was poor, here through the money of somebody else, and so desperately wanted to be something, make something of herself. And my wild friend, she could not be content with a normal life, marrying, having children. She wanted something more." Her voice drops, and she looks sad. "We all did."

Beautiful Pippa. Clever Ann. Wild Fee. It all sinks in, horribly, bizarrely, yet it still makes sense.

"My friends, my dear sweet friends, they were all so desperate and innocent and hopeful. The locket worked for us, too. That was mine, Gemma." She motions to the locket around her neck, and I wonder if she missed it, the feeling she got when she touched it, the burning, pulsing, powerful desire for something more.

"We didn't have much time together. And so we created a plan. We would... leave. Live forever in the realms. We wrote letters to our families one last time, telling them we loved them. We did not tell them what we were to do. Well..." she looks away, almost shy. "I confess that I told mother. I did not want to go, I did not want to give up. I wanted to be something here. You understand ... don't you?"

And I must say that I did.

"Mother knew of this power... she belonged to an organisation that ... controlled it, almost."

So Kartik spoke the truth.

"Mother knew of my intentions, tried to catch me before we went, but she could not. The waterfall..." and here she motions to it, "is the key. You pass through it, and reach The Choice. To pass through it, your head and your heart need to be willing. Else you become trapped here, forever."

I do not say anything. There is nothing to say.

"My friends passed through before me, but I became trapped. We didn't know what would happen, and I told them to go on. I would catch them up." She sighs. "That was 16 years ago."

"What is The Choice?"

"It is the answer to everything. Choice. Endless choice. Because that was what we craved."

"And there ... there is no way for you to pass over?"

"Not that I know of. It is difficult ... there was so much that we were not aware of. We were foolish and ignorant and arrogant, and I hate myself for it."

I reach out, and clasp her hand. I feel her fingers, cold and hopeless, begin to warm, begin to live. The strength in me is passing through to her, I am sure of it.

"Evelyn ... I have been having dreams. Such dreams. Visions, almost. They grasp me even when I am not asleep."

She looks towards me questioningly, and I continue.

"I have seen mother. She has asked me to find someone, and to tell them that she is sorry. A girl ... a woman. Could it be you?"


	13. Passion And Murder

"I think it might be." She is silent for a long time, her head bowed, thinking. Such thoughts.

"I suppose you should know the whole story," she finally says, and begins.

"I knew you were my sister as I saw you in my dreams. And her dreams. I saw mother and you, smiling and laughing. It broke my heart."

I glance quickly at her, and she smiles sadly. The tears twinkle softly in her eyes.

_Did mother hold you like she held me did she smile in the same way was she ever cruel why did she let you go to London how can she be magical why is she dead?_

"Mother and I did not get along. She detested London, and everyone we knew here. She didn't want me to turn out like some boring, insipid little woman, capable of being nothing more than a weak wife and satisfactory mother. I knew I was going to be more, but ... she did not believe me. We fought ... and, oh, we were cruel. I hated being sent away to school, and so did she, but she would not convince father to let me stay at home. She was the weak one."

I have never heard my mother be described in this light before. Powerful, serene, beautiful, elegant ... I could understand all of these. But weak? Never.

_Why am I here why are you trapped why did mother turn Felicity's eyes so black am I going to die?_

_Are you going to die?_

"I was home when I heard mother tell father she was with child. With you. He began dancing her around the room, and they looked so happy, I hated them. I hated myself. And I told myself that whatever you were – male, female, tall, short, cruel, kind, anything – I would despise you."

The poison in her words makes me pull away from her slightly, and she laughed softly and brushes the tears from her cheeks.

"And I meant it, too. Not any more, of course. Never. I often saw you, in her dreams, in your dreams, and I saw what you had become, what you were. You were beautiful, strong, intelligent, wonderful. And I saw you and mother, and how much you loved one another. You weren't sent away to school. You were together, always."

I don't know what to say. How mother could have had two daughters, and yet have treated them so differently. I couldn't see it. I didn't want to.

"India, I think it was." When I nod, she continues. "She often talked of India, how she longed to visit. I used to dream of it too, but to spite her, I would tell her how frightful I thought it would be. Hot and dirty and completely unsuitable." She laughs bitterly, and I sense something alien in her tone, in her voice, that makes me want to run. Very fast.

"Evelyn..."

"Please, let me continue. I knew mother always felt guilty. I knew that she had tried, and failed, to reach me, but she couldn't. One of the rules of the realms is that you are there for each other. For those who love you, and those who you love. Loyalty. She betrayed me, she betrayed all of them. She hadn't realised I was the one. And now it's too late. When I stepped under the waterfall, not only was I trapped in here for eternity, but mother was trapped out there."

I still don't understand. I long to float away down that river, carefree and cool, perhaps with a dark skinned dangerous man for company. I long for the reassuring weight of his body atop mine. I long for him. I can remember it all now. I remember how we kissed, under the moonlight and beside the silvery water of that lake, that lake where...

"Gemma, listen to me." Evelyn shakes my shoulder gently, and I return to her side, in both body and mind.

"Gemma, is there anything that mother gave you? A clue, a note, a warning?"

A locket.

"Evelyn, why isn't this with you anymore?"

She smiled sadly. "When we came here, for the last time, I had to send it back. It took an inordinate amount of strength and effort, and I was drained and exhausted afterwards. But I knew that it had to be kept, given to the next member. You. We started a fire that night, in the school. But the locket was mysteriously untouched." Here she smiles, as if coming to the punch line of a joke. "The last little bit of magic in it." There is something curious about her, as if she has memorised this. I wonder if she is telling the truth, but then her eyes soften and my heart melts.

"Mother needs your forgiveness, Evelyn. It is my responsibility. What can I do? Have you forgiven her?"

Evelyn frowns, biting her lip, reminding me so much of mother. My mother. Her mother. Our mother. Is she to be believed?

Is anyone?

"I thought I had. Long ago. I had always loved her, I know that. But ... I have to tell you something else." Her eyes darken, and once again I want to run. Far and fast. Hide away, oh God, don't let it find me, don't let that darkness find me, find my eyes, no, no, it won't, it shan't, oh God I can feel it, drowning me, taking me, Felicity...

I feel her cold hands on my skin, dragging me up, a look of concern and amusement intertwined perfectly in her eyes. Her black eyes. Her grey eyes. I know that they are grey.

"Gemma, what on earth are you doing? What happened?" I stumble over to the water. I have to check. My glass green eyes gazed impertinently back at me, a look of relief in them.

But when I look back Evelyn is gone.

I see him again this evening. It seems like a day cannot pass without his heads of curls and mocking eyes reflecting back at me in my mirror. This time he seems distracted, bashful, almost. It makes him vulnerable and endearing, and I want to touch my locket again, but his hand flies to mine before I can.

"Gemma, don't. We don't want you to get into trouble, do we?"

I do.

"Kartik, take your hand off me. I shall do what I want."

His eyes cloud over with amusement and anger, and he lets go, but my hand, instead of clutching at my locket, like I want it to do, travels down and rests in my lap. Ann, once again, is asleep, dreaming of being beautiful and dreaming of being loved. My eyes rest on her bulky form for a second, until meeting those of Kartik.

"Gemma, I know you went back. You have to tell me what you saw. Who you saw."

"I have to tell you nothing." I am being purposefully impertinent, flashing glances at him that he cannot decipher. I begin to brush my hair, teasing out the knots and tangles, and he falls silent. When I glance up, looking into my mirror, he is gazing at me with an unreadable expression on his face. My hands fly to my necklace, but this time I will be in control. This time I will do as I want.

I probe further than last time, but my power means he is helpless to stop me. He was admiring my hair, he thinks I am being childish, thinks I am being dangerous, thinks I am intoxicating, wants to kiss me like last night, wants to feel my skin and stroke my hair and kill me.

And kill me.

And suddenly I am back and I do not want to look any further. I have seen enough.


	14. Fateful Daggers

I gasp, and, to my disgust, feel the tears pooling in my eyes. He wants to kill me.

He knows what I have seen, and he draws out his dagger then and there. Oh God, I think, as I feel the panic rising in my throat, he's going to kill me. And I can see it. My hair is sticky, stained by the blood dripping from my neck. My mouth is open slightly, an expression of surprise on my features. My skin is deathly pale, and my glittering green eyes gaze unseeingly at something I do not know. And I realise that I am slowly becoming my mother, the blood fading at the neck, a wound fresh in the stomach, the nose longer, cheeks pinker, lips closed.

"Gemma, I-"

"Don't. Get away from me." I flail about desperately, trying to find a weapon with which to protect myself. How could he have kissed me and held me like that, all the while wanting me dead? How could he?

"Gemma, I don't want you dead. I never did. But you are a danger. To yourself. To others. To everyone and everything we know. It was my task."

Me. Dead. Lying, perhaps, with a stabbed heart, broken neck, slit throat. Perhaps they will find arsenic in my stomach, or water in my lungs. Perhaps they won't find me at all.

"Gemma." He is on top of me now, and I find I have nothing to protect myself with. My eyes are wide with terror, my lips parting only to emit the slightest whimper, and he holds the knife under my ribcage once more, and leans down, and kisses me hard, oh so hard, my body pressed against the wall with his weight, the knife, still there, pressed sharply against my skin, his other hand on my waist, on my back, on my leg. I give up trying to escape and sink into the kiss, revelling in the softness of his mouth and the warmth of his skin. I love him, and he is going to kill me.

I can feel his salty tears on my tongue, mingling with the sweetness of his breath, and I fall gently onto the bed, and he sits up, and by now the magic has begun to take hold. I had warded it off, with my shock and my surprise, but now it was back, flooding me, flooding my eyes. So what if he wants to kill me, just let me stay with him forever, floating in a soft cotton world of smoke and mirrors, illusions and fantasy, lies and stories and betrayal and love.

Such love.

Yet such betrayal.

I feel the knife against my skin, and breathe deeply, look up through the shimmering lights and see him, his face swimming in front of me, the eyes twinkling and troubled and broken, the hair falling in spirals around his face. My words are but a murmur, a dare.

"Go on. Do it."

He presses it against me even harder, and I feel the slit in my chemise.

"I wouldn't play that game if I were you."

I am incensed by his sudden change of behaviour. He is now nothing but cold, hard, harsh Kartik, the Kartik that I fear and despise. But I cannot move, pinned down by his weight. The magic is ready to explode inside of me if I don't take the risk, jump the gulf, feel alive, be alive.

"Kartik – please!"

"Do you want to die, Miss Doyle?" His voice is mocking and cool, sounding so much like Felicity that I hate her for it as well.

"Get off me, please, please, you have to!" My voice is growing weaker, the magic ready to pull me under. I use every bit of strength I have to prise one arm out from underneath his body and pull him down for another kiss. And as I do that the knife is plunged into my side, and I fill his mouth with the scream.


	15. Red Roses, Red Roses

He jumps off of me, leaves me lying there still and quiet, the blood spreading across my gown like a blooming red rose. I feel the pain, but cannot move, and I can only watch as he says goodbye with his eyes. He is almost out of the window when I whisper his name.

"Kartik. Please..."

But even as I speak, I can feel the magic tingling and buzzing through me; I watch the stain shrink into nothing, and feel the pain disappear, as if everything I have just felt is the end of a book, and with the closing of the cover I have locked it all away.

Lock it all away with a locket.

Lock it.

I laugh in spite of what has just happened. I can hardly believe it is true. The magic has the ability to heal wounds, wash blood, save lives. Without thinking, I pull up my chemise to inspect my skin. I hardly think of Kartik, still in the room and gazing at me furiously. Rapturously.

"Miss Doyle, remember yourself," he hisses, dragging down my clothing and glaring at me.

"You ... you stabbed me. You were to kill me." I falter. The euphoric feeling at my survival has left me, and instead I feel repulsion and fear at the thing in front of me.

"Miss Doyle, do not be so arrogant as to believe that a stupid little schoolgirl like yourself can change my mind. Can ... seduce me."

The words 'schoolgirl' and 'seduce' sting like lemon juice on grazes. I stand, move towards him, and very quietly whisper in his ear, "Kartik, my good fellow, if you do not escort me from the school and explain to me what on earth is going on then I am afraid that I shall scream. Very loudly. Loud enough to wake the dear Miss Bradshaw, who will vouch that she saw a gypsy boy trying to take advantage of me in the dead of night. So, my dear Kartik, what is it to be?"

The magic has given me the power of a cutting tongue.

Without any warning, his hand is on my mouth and he is carrying me as he shimmies down a vine, hanging conveniently close to my window. I try to squeal and wriggle free, but his grip, as I know, is strong, and he does not let go until we are on steady ground and he deposits me onto the earth with a soft thump.

"Miss Doyle, do you think that I was sent all the way from India to admire your dresses and pay you sickly sweet compliments?" His voice is callous, even though I can barely see him in the darkness of the night.

"Then why did you kiss me? And want to kiss me more?"

"It was ... a moment of weakness. It wasn't you. It was ... anyone. You were easy to get to."

I don't believe his words, but feel the tears trickling down my cheeks anyway. He reaches out to grab my face in his hands and feel them. I don't know what to expect from him anymore. I was broken, used, betrayed. I was hated.

"Gemma ... don't be so weak. Your mother was never this sentimental."

"My mother is dead. You probably killed her too." The words are out of my mouth before I can consider them, before I can stop them. I hate myself for even suggesting it.

"_I did not kill your mother."_ He hisses into the darkness, and I see him shape step closer. Panicked, I move backwards. My bare heel catches a clod of dirt and I stumble backwards. It reminds me of the time I first caught him in my room. How that ended. Him on top of me. On the bed. Such warm skin, such smooth lips...

How is it that I hate him and love him at the same time? He is like a poison, a drug, the laudanum and opium of London, sending me to sleep amongst the clouds and dance with the daisies.

IhatehimIlovehimIhatehimIlovehimhatelovehatelovehatelovehate.

Love.

"Kartik," I murmur, pressing myself up close to his body, and I can feel his resolve weakening and his arms around my waist. "Kill me again if you wish. I shan't care one ounce. Just please don't hate me. Oh God, don't hate me."

I am pressed against a tree, his hands in my hair and on my skin and my lip on his neck and on his chest and we want to be everywhere at once and nowhere at once and I moan and press closer and his hands are at the back of my chemise, dragging it up over my thighs, fingertips grazing my stomach and now it's his turn to moan.

"Gemma ... I can't. Not to you. It would destroy you."

And this is how I know I'm loved and this is how I know I'm hated.


	16. Exploratory Kisses

**This has a bit of mild Felicity/Gemma in it, because I want to save Kartik for myself. Only joking.**

**I'm really not.**

**Just to warn anyone ... I don't think it's strong enough to be bumped up to mature, but just in case anyone doesn't like to read 'that kind of stuff'...**

I wake in my bed in my room with Ann snoring peacefully besides me. I remember the events of the previous evening. How I was kissed, how I was stabbed, how I was carried, how I was kissed, how I was carried, how I was loved, how I was hated.

He left me, alone and moaning his name. I saw the flick of his cloak amongst the first few trees of the forest. I gaze down at my palms and they are scratched and grimy from the strenuous climb back up that blasted vine.

Ann is none the wiser, and I feel guilty, abusing her trust, and her ability to sleep so bloody deeply, like this.

But I do not act any different.

"Oh, Gemma, darling, say we can go back again tonight? Oh, please, Gemma, let's."

I offer no refusal, and so she smiles, and I instantly feel as though I can help her. Make her life more worthwhile. And I know that I owe it to her. I owe it to all of them.

Pippa and Fee meet us on the stairs, and are smiling brightly. After Evelyn vanished so suddenly last night, I forgot about her, and enjoyed myself. We ran around, as fast as our legs could carry us and faster, until we collapsed, gasping, under a rainbow sky and buttery sun. I made it snow, warm crystal snowflakes, and we revelled in it, swishing the powdery substance about until we were sleepy and giggly and exhausted. Our legs were shaky with the rush, and we lay like a flower, our heads at the centre, our graceful legs the petals. We held hands, the magic coursing through us, and there was no need to speak. We knew what we were all thinking. What we were all feeling. And I wondered, ironically, if magic was what it took for friendships to be forged. And I vowed to use all of the magic I had in me to leave us happy and warm and safe and alive. And free. Oh, so free.

There, we had what we wanted. What we needed. What we desired. Pippa was in love with a handsome prince who would visit her and whisk her away to be wooed. Ann was beautiful, her hair shining and her skin glowing. Felicity had a string of men come to pay calls on her. The most unsuitable of men. Stable boys and knights and sailors and blacksmiths and farmers and princes and pirates and lion tamers. None of us knew exactly what she would do with them, where she would go with them, what rules she would break with them. But we trusted her, and she trusted us.

I tried to think of what I was when I was there. I wasn't beautiful. I wasn't courted by a painfully gallant prince. I wasn't whisked away to frolic and fly with all sorts of men. I simply was.

Was what?

Happy.

The day seemed to fly by, each of us painfully nervy and jerky, desperate for the evening to come. However, by the time we were allowed freedom in the great hall, after supper, Felicity had decided that she couldn't wait.

"Gemma, darling, we simply must go now."

"How on earth are we going to be able to do that, may I enquire?"

She smiles wickedly at me, and leans forward, kissing me suddenly on the lips. I feel the blush starting to climb up my cheeks, turning them a delightful pink, which will contrast so beautifully with my blasted hair, I was sure. Her lips were soft and sweet and warm, and reminded me of Kartik. We were in the alcove, alone: Pippa and Ann were sitting elsewhere, excitedly discussing the events of the previous evening. We have no one to tell us to stop. The shadow embraces us, shielding us from view.

She breaks off, smiling still, and pulls me closer.

"We have no one to listen to. No one to obey." She whispers seductively, and I realise that it is not that she wants to kiss me, and it isn't that she wants to break the rules. She wants there to be no rules. She wants to create her own. And we know of a world where we could do that, where we could kiss like husband and wife and no one would be shocked and appalled and cross us off their Christmas card list. I want the same. And so this time I kiss her, and she giggles at my touch.

"Goodness, Miss Doyle, if Nightwing were to see you now!" She murmurs, and we collapse, still kissing, laughing together, loving together, living together. We delve deeper into the shadow of the wall, press against each other, our eyes open, mine reflecting the mocking amusement in hers. I feel her tongue press against my lips, and, after a second's hesitation, open mine. We are not so much kissing as exploring, testing the boundaries of ourselves, of everyone else. It isn't the kiss that we are enjoying; it is the fact that we are kissing in the Great Hall of Spence, with the teachers and pupils all around us, and no one any the wiser.

My arms are around her waist, and I murmur breathily into her ear, "My, Miss Worthington, you treacherous girl, what about all those other men that you beguile in the realms?" I giggle at 'beguile', and break away from the kiss, gazing at her pale face as she glitters with our wickedness.

"You can talk, Miss Doyle! What about that lovely gypsy gentlemen of yours, who took you and ravished you in the forest?"

I smirk, sit up, and lean against her, feeling our friendships in the way she plays with my hair and gently kisses my forehead. I know that it is no longer Felicity and Pippa, Ann and I, but Ann and Pippa, Felicity and I. And I cannot say that it saddens me.

"So ... I'm still waiting for an answer. About your gypsy boy?"

"He didn't ravish me." I breathe deeply, wishing, on some level, that I spoke a lie. That I had something to hide. I can feel the smirk settle on her lips, even though I cannot see her face.

"So, what exactly were you doing with him?"

I think for a second, and then close my mind and open my mouth.

"I was kissing him."

She feigns shock, gasping melodramatically at my audacity. I struggle into a sitting position, grin foolishly at her, and repeat it, louder. "I was kissing him!"

"Miss Doyle, you disgust me. No, I cannot even look at you! Get out of my sight and never darken my doorstep again! Apart, of course, when you are to take me into the realms once more."

And of course I will.

I see her immediately. She is back, like nothing happened, sitting on the tree branch and singing softly to herself. I wonder what it must have been like for her, alone and lonely, all those years. I wonder if I can even help her at all.

"Evelyn!" I smile, race to her. She glances up, and smiles, just like mother. This time, I am the one to embrace her, and she responds, holding me tightly. She looks no older than me, and yet I know that she has been alive for 32 years. Half of her life, spent solitary and hurting, only able to glimpse her mother in snatches of dreams and half dazes. I wonder at her bravery, her cheerfulness, her hope that something will change.

Hope.

"You must finish telling me, Evelyn. Now, quickly, before you leave again." I giggle, watch the other girls, with their freedom and carelessness, watch them dance and dream and drink and dive and die.

Die.

No, that is wrong.

I force my mind to focus on my sister, trying to tell me something.

"...Hate is such a strong word," she is saying, and I frown at the sudden mention of the word that has been plaguing my every waking hour. And every sleeping hour. Love hate love hate love. Hate.

"What?" I ask. She turns to me, smiling slightly, and repeats her sentence.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because, Gemma, I told mother, in the letter that I sent her, I told her that I hated her. That hatred bound her to the Winterlands for all eternity. I have reason to believe that you will be able to free both her and I. Please, Gemma. Please do it."

"I don't know how, Evelyn! I would if I did," I quieten, embarrassed at my outburst. Evelyn takes my hand, gazes into my eyes.

"Gemma, there is something that you must realise. I cannot tell you it, for you must come upon it in your own time. But believe me when I say this, you are far greater than you think you are. Do not lay your trust in pretty things, Gemma."

I don't know what this means. I don't know what to say.

"Gemma, mother and I have left the world. We cannot forgive or curse each other any more. That is one of the powers of the world that you live in. The world that was mine. You have the power to forgive your mother, and you have the power to free us both."

I understand then. It comes to me in a rush of clues, half heard conversations and spidery handwritten notes. I know.

"Gemma, it should be easy for you to do. It must be easy for you to do."

But I realise that the feelings I have towards my mother have changed since her death. My mother, who treated her daughter so cruelly, who did not listen, would not care... the mother that sent her child away, and was too weak to bring her back... the mother that her daughter abandoned, convinced that she would not be missed. My mother was not the woman I thought she was, and I do not know if I can forgive her any more.

"Gemma, please ... you have to."

"I ... I forgive her."

But she smiles bitterly, and turns my head so that I am gazing deep into her eyes. "Gemma, you must mean it. With both head and heart. Please. Let it go. I need you to. I want you to."

"How can I? She was cruel."

"But she has changed. Don't you see? How kind and loving she was to you, how much she altered so that she could be a better mother this time around. She learned from her mistakes."

"But her mistakes came at a great cost! Your life."

"Some mistakes are greater than others." And it breaks my heart when she says this.

"I need to see her." I decide, firmly and finally.

"You know where she is."

I step from the bough, onto the springy grass and the sugar petals. I hear nothing, not the sound of the laughter, the rush of the waterfall, the soft sweet singing of my sister. I approach the vines, swing them softly to one side, and face my mother.

She is alone, cold and dead and broken. Her hair is electric red, her eyes painfully sharp. Her lips are the colour of blood and her skin the colour of snow.

"Gemma? Have you come?" She whispers. I nod, scared to approach her. And then I see it, rising and forming and taking shape, and, oh God, it's come for me, it has, finally, I know it, and I feel the darkness overpowering me, feeling the inky hatred pulsing through my veins, reaching every little part of me, until my vision turns black and my eyes are dead.

I want to scream, but find I cannot open my mouth. I am falling, hard and sharp and fast, through every fear and every sadness and every pain and every injustice ever in the history of time itself. I feel the anger of a thousand million people, the sadness of orphans, of childless mothers, the fear in every infant's nightmare, the monster under the bed, the monster right in front of me.

I can hear my mother screaming at the top of her voice. "Gemma, they play on your weaknesses! Don't let them in! You have the power to block them! Use it!" But I cannot. The blackness is swirling around me, the faces of a hundred thousand broken hearted, hopeless and dying, sickly and wounded. I feel everything. I become the blackness itself.

"Gemma, they will take over! They will take you over! They will turn you into another wretched feeling, a feeling of hate and fear and sadness and pity. Do not let them! Oh, God, not my darling daughter. Not my darling Gemma!"

Yes your darling Gemma.

But suddenly I am lurched back to the white sands and piercing light of the Winterlands, to Felicity's frightened face and Pippa's irritating screams. I have no time to gaze once more at my mother: Felicity drags me through the vines, closing off the world of terror and blackness and death.

"What happened? Your eyes went just like Fee's did." Pippa's arms are around me, and I realise that she is my friend too. As is Ann. As is...

But there is no sign of Evelyn.


	17. Pretty Things

"So what you're saying is that I have to not only forgive her, but battle against that ... thing too?"

Evelyn chuckles, her fingers softly braiding my hair. "I am afraid so, my dear Gemma."

"I may be able to forgive her, but I will never be able to defeat that ... thing."

"That ... thing is yourself, Gemma. It is no monster. It is you. The Winterlands are able to conjure up illusions, fake death and betrayal. They play on your weaknesses. They grab hold of everything you fear, you hate, you have tried to forget, and they feast on it, turning insignificant little worries into crushing monstrosities of fears. That is their way."

"Well, I shan't be able to, then." I grumble, but I can feel her fingers stop.

"Gemma, you must. Mother will break if she stays in there much longer, and I do not want to be here for the rest of time. I have been sixteen for 17years, Gemma. I don't want to be 16 forever."

I know I am being selfish and spoilt and childish, but I can't help myself. I hate this responsibility, hate the stupid locket.

"So throw it away." Evelyn, also, has the irritating talent of delving deep into my mind and reading my thoughts.

"Get out," I smile, and she retreats. "You know I can't do that. You know it."

"Yes. I suppose I do."

He ambiguity throws me, and I want to question it, but my mind is already racing onto more important things.

"Evelyn, how am I meant to defeat it? How can I protect myself from it?"

Her answer is as cryptic as ever. "You have to fix it. To make sure there is nothing that they can grasp hold of. Make sure that there are no chinks in your armour."

"That's all very well for you to say. You don't have to go in there."

She pushes my head off her lap, and for the first time, I see her angry. "Don't you think I have tried that? Do you really think I want to rely on you, a stupid spoilt little schoolgirl?"

There is that word again. It stings, and so I walk away, not looking back. I join the girls, melt effortlessly into their laughter and dreams, and by the time I remember to look back, she is gone, and I am finally happy.

"Gemma, darling, what do you wish for?" Pippa calls to me as she dances with Ann, grasping her wrists and clinging for dear life as they twirl into nothing more than a blur. Pippa's hair flies out around her, and when they stop, giddy and exhausted, it is tangled and messy and wild. She pats it, giggles, and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, it is silky soft, shining and sleek, her skin creamy white and her eyes the colour of fresh violets. She is painfully beautiful, and I suddenly remember something my mother once said, years before.

_Such beauty is not a gift, but a curse._

Although I cannot see how this is true, I smile as it makes me feel less undesirable, and imagine I am beautiful too. I run to the river, see my face glimmering back at me. My hair is longer, smoother and glossier, my lips redder, cheeks softer, eyes greener.

"Is that what you want? To be beautiful?" Pippa asks, sinking onto the carpet of green that is as soft as a feather down mattress.

"_I_ know what she wants." Fee smirks tauntingly, sitting seductively close, before reaching out and placing the gentlest kiss on my lips. I remember the previous evening, before we even entered here, when we had kissed and dreamed and felt alive.

"She wants her gypsy boy!" she squeals, and before I can shush her, the others are on top of me, screaming and giggling in delight and audacity.

"What on earth does Fee mean? Tell, tell! You have to tell us!"

"I have to do no such thing!" I am smiling, teasing them, infuriating them. But I have not counted on Felicity.

"She is in love with a gypsy boy. I saw them kissing. Gemma wants him to ravish her."

"Fee! That is not true!" My eyes are wide in indignation, and I pounce on the laughing girl, before she adds, "Gemma, darling, there is no-one to judge you here. We can say anything we want and do anything we want and it is fine. You love him, you want to be with him and lie with him and-"

"She wants to lie back and think of England with him!" Pippa is laughing uncontrollably, and Ann joins her. Her eyes are shining and I feel that I cannot be embarrassed or angry as long as Ann is happy. She has been unhappy for too long.

Fee gazes at me, daring me, testing me. What will I do? Will I disappoint her? Will I be another one of the thousand nameless, faceless women of England who do as they are told and speak when they are spoken to?

No I shall not.

"I want him to ravish me!" I cry savagely into the night, and we are laughing once more, on top of each other, rolling and living and dreaming and dying and-

No. Dying. That is wrong.

And then I notice that Ann is crying. We gradually stop, crowd around her, patting her cautiously on the shoulder and frowning wordlessly at one another.

"Ann, darling, what is it? What has upset you so?" Pippa's voice is as clear and fluid as water. I think of my own voice, savage and sullen, and secretly I hate her just a little bit.

"Well, we all know ... we all know it's not real, don't we? We know it's just an illusion. We will return, like every other evening, and I will be Ann the scholarship student again, plump and plain, and I will have to watch you all go off and many wealthy men and live charmed lives while I will consider myself lucky if I manage to get a job as your children's governess. I will always be inferior."

Felicity says nothing. I know that she is agreeing with Ann, and does not think that telling her that she is wrong, that she will be great and loved and noble, is going to help her. Because we all know our place. We cannot change our fates. That is for the men to do.

But as I am thinking this, I notice that Pippa has a strange expression on her face. I cannot read it, cannot understand it. I remember what I was told. _Do not lay your trust in pretty things, Gemma._

Pippa's such a pretty thing.


	18. Forbidden Fruit

I lay my head down, glad of the softness of my pillow, when I hear the window creak open again. I know who it is, whose soft footsteps are padding across the floorboards towards my bed, and I do not want to see him. I do not turn, and instead lie gazing at the wall; eyes wide open trying to will him to leave.

I can do no such thing.

"Miss Doyle, I know you are awake."

Even when whispering, his languid drawl is so cock-sure and confident that I cannot rise above it. I sit straight up in bed, hardly noticing or caring that I am only in my nightgown, that my hair is loose and wild, tumbling down my back in those rebellious curls that threaten to destroy my facade of being a good little Englishwoman. I glare at him, my eyes narrowing until, no doubt, I resemble a bad tempered and hissing cat.

"Do you not realise that it is 3 o'clock in the morning and that I am trying to sleep? Do you not realise that you always seem to announce yourself whenever I am least dressed? Kartik, do you not realise that I do not value your company and would like you and your too enthusiastic dagger to go away and leave me the bloody hell alone?" It comes out in a hiss, but he seems not to notice, and instead laughs lightly and comes to sit on my bed.

"Gemma, darling, don't flatter yourself with delusions in which I am infatuated with you. Please."

He still has the ability to make the hot prickly tears burn at the backs of my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they blasted things instead decide to fall down my face and spill onto his hand, which is holding me loosely by the throat.

"Kartik, just leave me alone. I don't care about your mysterious organisation, and what secret tasks are keeping you here ... just please leave. I don't care for your company."

His answer is to kiss me roughly on the mouth, and pull at the neckline of my nightgown, exposing my pale neck and collarbone. I hear the grating sound of fabric ripping, and his warm fingers are on my skin. Once more, he intoxicates me, but I have enough dignity to be the one that pulls away first, and leaves him wanting.

"Kartik, you have a bloody cheek." My voice is flustered and breathy, and his hand, still on my skin, is sure to feel the fluttering of my heart as it pounds against my ribcage, like a bird struggling against the metal bonds that encage it. He smiles into my hair, but draws back, and I think I see hurt in his eyes. They twinkle sharply in the light streaming in through the window, like shards of broken glass.

_Tread carefully, my dear Gemma._

And then I realise that I do need him.

"Kartik, how do I help my sister and my mother cross over? Evelyn said something about facing my fears and letting go of my weaknesses and forgiving my mother. But it seems impossible."  
"Nothing's impossible, my dear Miss Doyle." His eyes dance around my room, resting on the mirror, the comb, the pins lying scattered across the table, before finally returning his eyes to me. I remember what I said, earlier in the realms, and blush instantly. Although he could never find out.

But he could.

I can feel him inside of me already, delving deep into my thoughts, dragging out dusty boxes filled with memories and scarps of conversations from long ago.

"Don't you ever think it might be rude to explore someone's head without asking?" I inquire icily, but he just chuckles slowly and retreats. And then I realise that I do not know why he is still here. Why did he not just give me my mother's message and leave, go back to his puny organisation that seems to sit around plotting the murders of innocent young girls, just because they're jealous. Pitiful.

He sees this somewhere, in my eyes perhaps, and he twists, becoming cold and angry in the blink of an eye. I find that I am becoming tired of his constant mood swings, and so ignore him and lie back down once again. I shall ask him the next time he turns up, peering through the window, perhaps, or sitting silently behind the changing screen, or perhaps even waiting for me in my own bed.

In my bed.

Kartik.

I can feel the blush beginning once more. Even the though of being ... ravished, as Fee put it, is so alien and strange that I cannot help but feel a little nauseous. I pull the blankets up around my face, so that only my inquisitive eyes peek out. He leans down, places a soft kiss on my forehead, and stands to leave. And instantly, it is as if I cannot bear his departure. It reminds me perversely of the games that I used to play with my mother as a child.

_If I were angry with her, I would refuse to give her a goodnight kiss. Yet when she reached my bedroom door, I would cry out for her. When she returned to my side, I would have thought of another reason to reject her, and this to-ing and fro-ing would continue until she tired of it and left me, alone and regretful in the dark._

I wonder if Evelyn had ever played this game with her. I wonder if she tired of Evelyn.

He seems to sense the fact that I do not want him to leave. He pauses by the window, glances back at me, and lets the words, "Don't be playing games, Miss Doyle," drift across his lips. He is gone, and I am alone and aching once more.

* * *

I do not want to return to the realms that night, for the excitement is visible on our faces. Our skin in pale and dusky, our lids heavy and our words slurred. There are dark rings underneath our eyes, which Pippa has tried ineffectually to remedy with some herbs from the garden, smearing them on our skin, all the while insisting that they will leave us dewy and refreshed. 

She was wrong.

We stumble about the day, banging into doorframes and spilling bottles of ink. Fee accidentally barges into Cecily Temple, who squawks unattractively and insists that it were on purpose. Fee is too tired to argue back, but Mademoiselle LeFarge, who is besotted with Felicity's beautiful French, ignores the protestations.

Even Art is uneventful. Miss Moore seems to be locked away in her own thoughts, much like myself, and wanders about the classroom, nodding and smiling absently at our work. We are to be concentrating on still lives, now that Assembly Day is so soon, and everywhere you look, you see insipid, bland girls daubing paint onto canvas, just so they can display some lifeless, flat picture of fruit to their parents, who will applaud lightly and lavish her with empty praise.

Felicity seems to have woken up somewhat, and is smiling wickedly as she daubs the paint onto her canvas. She has refused to let anyone see what she is painting, as and Miss Moore finally comes to a halt by her canvas, she steps back, and, with a flourish, breathes, "It's finished!"

I can tell from her smug expression that she has not just drawn bowls of fruit. I step closer, intrigued.

"Very interesting, Miss Worthington. What made you decide to take this approach?" Miss Moore is inspecting the painting carefully, as if there was something written finely on its surface, and when she steps back, I see what fee has created.

The bowl of fruit is pretty much the same: two apples, a pear, some grapes and a few other items. But the way she has painted them ... each piece of fruit is hideously rotten, worms and other unimaginable lice crawling over each piece of decaying food, the white furry mould and dripping green sludge ... it is enough to make my stomach turn, and many of the other girls call out in disgust, but Felicity looks strangely triumphant. Miss Moore, too, seems enthralled.

"Miss Worthington, you have shown exceptional originality and initiative, and for that you should be very proud. However, it seems to me as though your parents will not ... appreciate the level of effort and imagination gone into creating this, and so perhaps it would be best if you were to paint another one?"

Fee looks irritated, as though she only wants praise and admiration, and, I think with a ironic grin, but of course. That is Fee.

"But Miss Moore, I won't have time to paint another one. I shall simply have to show them this." She is talking nonsense – Assembly Days is two weeks away, and we have plenty of lessons before then – but, when I glance at her in confusion, I see why. Her bottom lip is stuck on is a petulant pout, and she is the epitome of the spoilt brat. She does not want to paint another one, have to admit defeat and become the perfect young lady everyone expects. She wants to show her parents this picture and have them applaud her. The famous Admiral Worthington and her wife. I wonder what they shall be like.

We file out dutifully, saying our thanks to our distracted teacher, before hurrying along to the main hall, eager to meet with friends, whisper gossip into ears, hold hands and share that closeness that only girls locked away at a finishing school can share. It is magical, delicious, a friendship with no boundaries or rules, when you love and you hate and you would die for and you would kill your truest and closest friends. I glance at Pippa, singing softly under her breath, and I wonder if she minds that Felicity has replaced her.

I wonder if she even knows.

She clasps my hand tightly, smiling a little secret smile at me that seems so full of hope and sadness that I know that something is wrong.

"Pip, what is it?"

She says nothing, shaking her head and glancing towards Felicity, striding on ahead, and Ann trailing awkwardly behind.

"Can I talk to you?" she whispers sweetly in my ear, and I feel I must say yes. I want to say yes.

We break away, finding ourselves on the same path, down by the forest, where Felicity and I first forged our unlikely friendship, a friendship based on lies and trickery and blackmail and gypsies. Her face, I can now tell, is troubled, saddened and withdrawn, and she stifles a small sob as we move into the forest and come upon the lake.

_That lake, where I was pressed up against a tree and laid down in the grass and kissed and touched and made to feel alive._

_That lake, where I was left and abandoned and given up on. _

_That lake, where I was deemed not special enough to fight for._

_That lake._

"Gemma, you must promise not to tell anyone. I haven't told Ann or Fee yet, I can't ... I will, but not now."  
"Pip, darling, what's the matter? What's happened? Are you sick?" A thought slithers into my mind like an emerald green snake, the vibrant colour a warning to its predators. "Are you leaving?"

"I am engaged."

There is nothing that you can say to a young lady who says this sentence with tears pooling in her eyes and panic fluttering in her throat. I know what she feels, and I know what she thinks, and I know she just needs me to hold her.


	19. Weeping Brides

**hey ... this one is rather long, but hopefully will still be halfway decent. Hope you all enjoy. Mild gemma/kartik, nothing too risque. **

Pippa tells Fee and Ann that evening. Ann immediately turns white and starts mumbling her congratulations, but one tearful look from Pippa and a poisonous one from me shush her. She seems to crumple back in on herself, and, for the first time, I see anger in her eyes. No misery, no rejection, no acceptance. White-hot ire.

But I cannot think of that, not now.

"Pippa, why did you not tell me that you were being courted?" Felicity's voice is shaky, and I can tell that she is distraught. I also notice that she said 'me', and I give a little sigh of disappointment.

"Because I told my mother that I did not care for him at all, and that I did not want to be courted by him. I thought she would listen! I thought she would understand."

My arm finds her waist and she sinks into me, weeping openly now that it is just us and the candlelight flitting across the cold marble floor. We are alone in the great hall, our words bouncing off the walls and windows, screaming back to us in hateful mocking tones.

_You were tricked, all of you tricked. You were never going to be anything different. You thought that you were special. You thought that you could dream. Let me tell you, my pretties, we all dream. We all dream, and then we all die, and all our dreams are forgotten. It is the way of things here, my dears. The men do all the dreaming. There is no room for you, my pretties. We have been able to break you._

I do not know what to say. Ironically enough, my mind keeps flickering back to the realms, back to my mother and my sister. Alone and bitterly cold, trapped endlessly in a myriad of swirling illusions and delusions, fantasies and nightmares, life and death and life and death and life.

And death.

I hear my name spoken, turn to feel the eyes of all three gazing at me. Fee is stubborn and resolute, Ann is unsure and wavering, but Pip is the one who breaks my heart and mends it all at the same time. She is imploring.

"Gemma? We can, can't we? You _will_ take us?"

And I know that the answer to this question will always be 'yes'.

* * *

"Gemma!" It is Evelyn, of course, and she rushes to me as I turn away. "Oh, Gemma, darling, oh, how I have missed you! Please, Gemma, please forgive me for what I said. It breaks my heart to see you saddened. I was venting my rage on you unfairly, and for that I am truly sorry. Please, my darling Gemma. Please forgive me."

I know that I have, already, but I turn away, revelling in this power that I have over her. I know her eyes will be filling with tears, her finger will be twisting a lock of her hair, a lock of hair so similar to mine.

"Evelyn, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help you. Maybe there is no way, and mother is simply trapped there forever. I don't know how I can save you. I'm sorry."

"Gemma!" Her voice reminds me of the bleak and despondent Pippa, sitting gazing in the river just a few feet away from me. I know that whatever I can do, I must - for both of them - but I cannot say this knowledge does not ache somewhat. This is my power, and yet I cannot enjoy it like the others. I must sit and think about that white place, beyond the greenery, think about my mother, trapped and frozen, blackening and decaying until her soul will be dead. I know that I owe it to them, to both of them. To all of them. And so I sigh, and turn, and walk away from my friends, and towards my sister.

* * *

"Evelyn, help me. You said that there could be no chinks in my armour. How can I help that? Everyone has weaknesses."

She nods, fiddles with a leaf that fell from the tree and turned into a knotted ribbon. Her slender fingers work desperately to free the thread, but I can see that it is hopeless. I try to gently prise it out of her hands, but she looks up, with a sad smile, and says softly, "You have to try, Gemma. Otherwise what else can you do?"

And I know that she is not just talking about the ribbon.

So I let go and return to running my fingers across the gnarled bark of the tree. Secretly I wished her gone. Gone from this place, gone from my life, gone from my head and my heart. I want to be carefree, yet I cannot even remember what that felt like.

"I've seen you, Gemma. In your dreams. You are in love."

My blood does not so much run cold, as run very, very hot. I can feel it pulsing in my head, burning through me until my mind is blistering and everything is laid out, open, anyone care to see?

"Who is it? Has father found you a paramour?" She smiles slightly and it is all I can do not to run from her.

"No. He has not."

"So, Tom has? He must be, what, 19, 20 by now? Goodness. I cannot imagine him as a grown man. Is he handsome? I thought he was going to be. I tried so hard, whenever I saw him, to bring him up well, but I was afraid that he was turn out spoilt. Am I right?"

I think about my answer. I am glad that Tom has come up, for it takes the question of 'my gypsy boy', as Fee puts it, out of her mind. "He is handsome, yes, and very well respected. He works at Bethlem, and is very successful, I know. He is looking for a wife now. He is ... rather spoilt, but is kind enough, and I do love him."

She seems satisfied with my response, but I confess that I do not know whether this is an accurate representation of Tom. He is hard working and well received at balls and dinners, I am told, but he is arrogant and snobbish and quite unpleasant to be around sometimes. I wish I could tell the truth for once. The truth about everything. About Tom, and father, and Pip and Fee and Ann. And Kartik.

He has not gone out of her mind, however. Her eyes glitter with wickedness, and, just for a second, I wonder what it must be like to have Felicity as your older sister.

Hell, I should imagine.

"So, who is it that has cast you spellbound?" Her fingers stroke my cheek until I feel drowsy and relaxed.

"He is a gypsy boy. A fine one, at that. He knew mother. He knew something about her. He knows about you, and about how I come here, and about how I have to forgive mother for you. He knows..." Everything? Perhaps, but I am not sure. I trail off, biting my lip and playing with the hem of my dress. Her warm finger pokes playfully at my nose, and I give in, smiling broadly and feeling suddenly exuberant.

"Perhaps the chink in your armour is him? Perhaps he is your weakness?" This was not what I was expecting. I was expecting a gasp, a face drained pale, a sharp word and perhaps even a medicinal slap. Not a smile, a prod, and a sensible question. I am taken aback, and I begin to love my sister just that little bit more.

"What are you suggesting? That I kill him?" I am being ridiculous, but I _think_ I know what she is going to suggest, and I _know_ I know that it will not be something pleasant.

"No, not that you kill him. That you ... notice his flaws. Find them irritating. Treat him professionally, instead of seeing everything you like about him."

"Does it bother you that he's a gypsy?"

She doesn't say anything for a while, and after a few seconds of uneasy silence, I glance at her. The sight before my eyes is unexpected, and not at all welcome. My sister is crying, her green eyes glistening with those beastly drops of utter sadness that I have come to regard as some of my dearest friends. I reach to wipe them away but she flinches, before shooting me an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, Gemma, truly I am. It's just ... I know what you are feeling. When I was at Spence, all those years ago, I ... there was a gentleman amongst the band of gypsies that you speak of who I was... rather fond of. He was one of the reasons I was not able to cross over. I miss him terribly so. I often wonder how he is."

"What was his name?"

"Benedek."

Already a plan is forming in my mind. I wish desperately for my sister to be happy, as happy as possible until I figure out how to help both her and mother cross over. Mother.

Locked in the Winterlands, I have not ventured behind those swaying vines since the fateful day that I was almost taken under. I think of how cool and calm and peaceful it looked, and then I remind myself that things are never what they seem. Ann seemed antisocial, Pippa vain and Felicity spiteful.

Yet, when I think back over this, they are those things. But the difference is that that is not all they are. They are so much more. Ann is clever, caring and sensible. Pippa is romantic, innocent and sweet. Felicity is wild and strong and brave.

And me? What am I? What were their first impressions of me? Sullen? Aloof? Shy? What am I to them now? Magic? Is that it?

I turn back to Evelyn, see the tears tracking slowly down her cheeks. I smile slightly, and embrace her warmly. Her hands hold me tightly, and once more I realise how much it must wrench her soul when she watches us all stroll idly by, able to come and go as we like.

"Evelyn ... I think we should go now. I have something very important to do."

* * *

As I told Evelyn, I did have an important mission. I told the others I was feeling drowsy, and so they reluctantly said goodbye to the realms they so adored and came back with me to dusty old Spence, where you can become a proper lady if you have money and beauty and a silent tongue. We stumbled off to our bedrooms, and I watched as Ann undressed and slid between the sheets of her bed. She was asleep within minutes, and all I had to do was slip out of bed and down the vine. I had had to change into my nightgown to avoid arousing her suspicion, but I was wearing a dark cloak of hers to disguise myself against the night. I hurry to the forest, glancing back over my shoulder one last time to check that I am not being watched from a window. I slip soundlessly into the forest, trying to calm my fluttering heart and convincing myself along the way that there are no such things as monsters. Not in this world, anyway.

I follow the flicker of the fire and the laughter of men, and I come to a clearing. Here, several people, dark skinned and rugged, are gathered around a fire, drinking and talking and singing and dancing. A musical instrument is being played. I watch from behind a tree, secretly curious as to the real life Kartik leads. Not the life when he is hiding in my room, or reporting to his stupid organisation. The life where he is with his family and friends.

Perhaps he is married. He seems about 17, 18 perhaps, and could easily be a husband.

Perhaps even a father.

Oh God.

I want to turn and run very fast, all the way back to the school and the vines and the window and the room and the bed. But I take a deep breath, and try to scan the group, looking for his familiar face. I cannot see him. But I did not come all this way for nothing. I step into the clearing, and the talking and singing dies down.

"Hello," I say in a voice shaky with nerves, but trying desperately to sound imperious, "I am looking for Benedek."

A man, 35 or so, approaches me, a bemused grin on his face. He is rather handsome, with laughing eyes and a friendly smile. He speaks English with an accent, unlike Kartik, and I have to listen carefully to understand what he is saying.

"Yes, I am Benedek. You are you? What do you want?"

I lower my hood and gaze into his face. He pales a little, and his mouth opens slightly.

"Evelyn? Is it really you?"

I do not want to break his heart but I have to do it anyway. I can feel the eyes of his family resting on me inquisitively, so I breathe deeply and begin.

"No. I am sorry, it is not. It is her sister. My name is ... Amelia." I do not yet know whether I can trust him not to go running to the school to alert Mrs Nightwing as to the disobedience of her pupils. Instead, I look him in the eye, and continue. "Evelyn, my dear sister, died 16 years ago. I believe she knew you."

He nods wordlessly.

"She left a note in my possession, which I have only recently discovered. It told me to find you and tell you that she loves you still, and always had. And always will. She says that she misses you, and thinks of you often, where she is. She says to be happy, and that she will meet you when your time comes. That is all."

His eyes are filled with something that I recognise, and, when I look closely, I know it from my own reflection. Sadness, mixed with grief, mixed with hope and relief.

"I thought she had left me."

"She says that she would never have done such a thing. She died in the fire in the school. You must have heard of it."

"I am afraid that I am not close friends with your dear headmistress." He grins wickedly, and, for a second, I wonder whether he is related to Kartik. There is something similar about them, certainly, but I do not know. I cannot be sure.

"Who are you?" A man, 20, perhaps, stands up and leaves the group, advancing towards me. "Who gave you the right to come and invade our privacy? Proper little English girls like you need to stay away from us – we might give you disease." There is a smattering of hostile and resentful laughter, and I blush instantly.

"Well, then, I think it is safe for you to assume that I am not a proper little English girl."

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. He laughs harshly, and takes my arm. "Well, that it a piece of luck, because I know that proper little English girls do not like mixing with gypsy boys." He pulls me close, whispers something outrageous in my ear. I am horrified, but, oddly enough, I am desperate to see what happens when I play with fire. So I do not wrench my arm from his grasp and flee. Instead, I gaze around, trying to clear the panic from my face and from my throat, trying to spy Kartik, the boy that I wish to see and dread to see in equal measures.

"Miss Doyle?" His head emerges from a small tent in the corner. He is groggy and half asleep, his hair tousled and his eyes soft. I smile against my will and then glance quickly at the man slowly backing me up against a tree. With a jolt, I realise he is kissing my neck, one hand tightly on my waist and the other lifting the hem of my nightgown.

"I order you to let me go."

"English girls do not order gypsies. We are not their servants." He replies, with such disgust in his voice and lust in his eyes that I do not know what to say. His hand is drifting to my neck, caressing my body until I feel sick.

"Kartik!" I beg, the word coming out in little more than a whisper. Benedek is standing still, not seeing anything, thinking of the girl whom he loved and who broke his heart all those years ago. He does not see me. He does not see me at all.

Kartik is out of his tent, gazing at me as I am trapped by this vile man who knows nothing of human decency. My eyes give away my terror, and all of a sudden he is there, amusement clearly twinkling in his eyes.

"Having fun, are we, Miss Doyle?"

I gaze at him once more, and he relents, dragging the man off of me and speaking angrily in a tongue that I do not understand.

"She is yours? She does not look very happy to see you." The man retorts in English, and lurches drunkenly towards me once more. In desperation, I lean into Kartik, kissing him passionately and pressing my body against his. I put one hand on the back of his head and the other around his neck, and pull him in, not allowing him to stop. I must admit I enjoy it immensely. His hands find my waist, then my back, then my hair. I moan suddenly, a little breathy murmur that has just the right effect.

I know I can hear jeers and shouts coming from the campfire but I do not care. He is walking me backwards to his tent, pushing me to the ground and sliding me inside. With a flick of his leg, the material swings down, and we are hidden from prying eyes.

"Miss Doyle, what the bloody hell do you think you are playing at?" He whispers furiously once we are inside. I am still lying down, breathing rather deeply, and look up at him through half closed eyes.

"I was delivering a message to a man named Benedek, from my sister. She loved him once."

"And then why did you not leave?"

"I couldn't! That despicable man accosted me! You saw!"

"I saw you kissing him, and it looked like you were rather enjoying it."

"How dare you?" My voice is indigent, but I must remember that I am lying half dressed in his tent, and that the impression I give cannot be altogether virtuous.

"Miss Doyle-"

"Kartik." There is no more to come. I was simply quietening him. "I also came to see you."

"Why?"

"Because. I missed you. And I need to ask you some things."

He sighs, runs his hand through his curls, and looks longing at the blankets strewn about the little shelter.

"What are you still doing here, watching me, hiding in my room?"

"I have to monitor you, make sure that you do not do anything stupid. Like tell anyone _else_ about your ... gift."

"But I can only do real damage in the realms, and you cannot come with me."

"I have others ways of keeping an eye on you, Miss Doyle."

"But you don't need to. You gave me the message, you can leave now."

"Is that what you want, Miss Doyle? For me to leave?"

I watch him breath deeply, clearly annoyed at my behaviour. I feel chastised and foolish, but do not sit up. He looks down at me, and repeats his questions.

"Not exactly. Secondly, why did you stab me?"

He looks amused at the fact that I am so boldly changing the subject, and then replies, "I didn't. You did that to yourself."

I am confused by his answer, and frown at him wordlessly until he continues.

"I was not going to. I was merely ... threatening to. But then you pulled me towards you and accidentally stabbed yourself."

I feel completely ridiculous. Imagine if I had died? I would have inadvertently ended my own life. I find myself giggling at the mere thought.

"But why did you leave?"

"Because that was my task. Once you had stabbed yourself, I thought it were best that I left. My job was done, and I was not going to sit and watch you suffer."

I wonder at this. Was he brave, or cowardly? Was he noble, or weak? I cannot be sure.

"Miss Doyle, perhaps it is time that you return to the school."

"I would like to stay here for a little while, if you please. I should like to talk with you."

"About what?"

"Anything. I am not tired."

"_I_ am, Miss Doyle. I am going to have to bid you goodnight."

"Well, then, I am going to have to stay." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I try my best to stop the blush flooding my cheeks. His eyebrows raise, and I wonder what he is thinking? Does he love me? Does he think I am wild and courageous and passionate? Or does he think I am foolish and stupid and immoral? Do I care what he thinks?

Yes.

He leans down next to me, his face towards me. I turn over onto my side to face him, and the rip in my nightgown, from his very own hands, falls apart. I blush, expecting him to turn away, but instead he pulls it up, ever so gently. His hand brushes against my breast, and he freezes, a look of inexorable guilt spreading across his features.

"Terribly sorry, Miss Doyle."

"Quite alright, Mr Kartik."

He turns onto his back, and for the first time, I realise that he is not wearing a shirt. His chest is smooth and tanned and finely muscled, and I brazenly reach out a hand and trail my fingertips from the hollow of his neck to the waistband of his trousers. I feel a shudder go through him, and he opens his eyes once more and grins wickedly sat me.

"Is that how you want to play it, Miss Doyle?"

Before I can think, he is kissing me roughly, pushing me onto my back and rolling on top of me. He weight presses me to the ground, and I find the air pressed lightly out of my lungs. His hands, skimming my thighs, are pushing my nightgown to my waist, his fingers everywhere all at once. I kiss him back, but, with a start, realise that his hands are creeping determinedly towards my chest. I try to wriggle free, but he presses into me harder and traps me with his legs. My thighs are forced apart by a knee, and he is between them all of a sudden. I do not like this new turn of events. I want to be back teasing him, mocking him, loving him, hating him. His teeth nip lightly at my neck and I moan uncontrollably. I see his eyes glint with newfound knowledge. He knows he is in control.

"Gemma, Gemma, relax and close your eyes."

"Kartik, no, let me go, please."

He does not answer, merely smiles dangerously, and leans down to kiss me once again.

"Kartik, please don't. Oh God, please don't."

This is not how I imagined it. This is not how I wanted it. I know that the tears are sliding down my face and I beg him to leave me be, and, all of a sudden, he is gone, standing next to me, smirking triumphantly.

"Not quite as much fun as you thought it would be, is it now, Miss Doyle?"

I say nothing; just twist my body around, so that I am face down in his blankets, sobbing in fear and relief and desperation. I can feel my body shaking with sobs, and hear him cursing quietly under his breath.

"Gemma..."

I say nothing, just reply with a fresh bout of tears. He is right; I am nothing more than a stupid little schoolgirl, arrogant and big headed enough to believe that I know everything, that I am in control of everything. He sits next to me, stroking my back gently, but I flinch at his touch. He stops, before slipping his hands around my waist and twisting me inelegantly so I am facing him.

"Gemma, I didn't mean to scare you..."

I cover my face with my hands and weep openly. I feel him reaching down, prying my fingers away and kissing my face tenderly.

"There. All better. Shall we stop crying now?"

I gaze up at him, bleak, broken. I do not know what to do, how to stand, how to speak. I am empty, hollow, vain and promiscuous. I loathe myself, and he knows it.

"Gemma, darling. Shh, shh, now, yes?" hH strokes my face, his warm fingertips grazing my lips. I close my eyes, breathe out shakily, and feel suddenly exhausted.

"I only mean to warn you that you are being incredibly foolish. I am only thinking of you."

"Not yourself?"

"Not at all."

"How selfless you are." I spit the words out, coating them with poison as I send them on their journey.

"Gemma, stop being arrogant."

"I am not being."

He sighs, takes hold of my shoulders and looks me directly in the eye. "You are being childish, and I cannot bear it. Either act like a grown up, and I will kiss you, or act like a child, and I will not."

I think about his order. I thought I had grown up the day my mother died. I was clearly wrong. I can be as petulant as Pippa, as whiny as Ann, as irresponsible as Fee.

I think of her. She would have no qualms about coming down in the dead of night and kissing strange gypsy boys, I am sure.

I will act like a grown up," I decide. "And you may kiss me."

And he does.


	20. An Incovenient Virtue

He carries me back to the school in the early hours of the morning. I am drowsy and languid, and he kisses me softly as he places me back on my bed. Ann shifts in her sleep and we hold our breath for a moment, terrified as to what would happen if she were to wake. But she does not.

He kisses me once more and then is gone, and I roll over, facing the wall, and think about the events of the night. I remember Benedek, and how my sister loved him. I remember the vile man who tried to touch me and make me his own. But most of all I remember the warm hands and soft lips and breathy moans of Kartik.

I still have my virtue. He blankly refused to 'flaw' me in that manner, and I am grateful for it, even though, at the time, I was passionate and irresponsible and drunk with desire.

Kartik is a far more powerful spirit than rum could ever be.

We kissed each other and we touched each other and we held each until we slumbered, and then I woke as he carried me softly back through the forest. I remember vaguely seeing the pink blush of dawn slant through the trees, remember the feeling of fresh new warmth on my skin.

I remember Kartik.

* * *

Felicity immediately notices something different when Ann and I meet her and Pippa for breakfast. Pippa is wearing a diamond on her finger, and looks broken hearted and hollow. The other girls notice the ring and crowd round her until she dully announces her engagement. Mrs Nightwing, of course, knew all about it, and smiles proudly as she calls for congratulations. Pippa tries to smile, but her true feelings are clear on her face.

"Who is he? Is he handsome? Pippa, why on earth are you crying? Are you really so spoilt that you are angry because the diamond isn't big enough?" Cecily smirks, and I feel a new rush of hate towards her. Felicity notices the barbed comment too, and accidentally steps on the hem of her dress, causing her to sprawl inelegantly over the marble floor of the great hall. Cecily is chided for her carelessness, and Felicity is now the one to smirk.

I am thinking throughout the day about what my sister said about Kartik. Shut him out. Treat him professionally. I do not think that my behaviour last night was all that professional. It certainly wasn't respectable. Not what proper English girls do in the depths of the nighttime. Proper English girls sleep dreamlessly, with a peg on their nose to stop the snores escaping.

Is Fee a proper English girl? Technically, yes. She is pretty, clever, witty, and, academically, achieves a great deal. But yet she is wild and rude and poisonous too. She kissed me passionately, and meets with many men, and is so different form anyone that I have ever known that I do not know how to compare her to anyone. Or anything.

Pippa is different. Pippa is spoilt and selfish and vain, but she is also caring and romantic and sweet. She is longing for her Prince Charming, for the knight that will come and sweep her off her feet, with his chiselled good looks and gallant behaviour. From my experience, such a man does not exist.

Ann, on the other hands, desires what we all already have. She wants to be wealthy, and respected, and to have opportunities in life beyond caring for other people's children. She wants to be one of us, and, try as we might, we cannot alter the fact that she is not.

Life can be so cruel.

* * *

Kartik is in my room that night. Ann enters a few seconds before me and I can see the panic flash across her face, like a child caught stealing from a wealthy man's pocket. She glances from me to him, and then squeaks something about how she forgot her book, and races from the room.

"Gemma!" Kartik calls to me, and I race after her and grab her arm just before she begins down the stairs.

"Ann, please, don't tell anyone. Please, don't tell Mrs Nightwing!"

Her eyes widen, and she smiles awkwardly before shifting in my grasp and uttering the words, "Gemma, don't be ridiculous. I just ... wanted to leave you alone. I was getting in the way."

It is true, but I do not want to agree with her. She still believes we only put up with her because we are sympathetic, and I know that she still hates herself. She doesn't think she belongs anywhere.

"Ann, you needn't have left, he was quite alright ... you were the one that wasn't."

A thousand different expressions flit across her face as she realises this. But then she smiles wickedly, reminding me so much of Felicity that I am quite shaken, and whispers slickly, "Yes, but Gemma, if I haven't seen anything then there is nothing I can tell Mrs Nightwing. I think it is better this way." And she walks off.

I stand staring at her for a few seconds, and then remember why she ran off so suddenly, and hurry back to Kartik. He finds the key to the door and locks it, flicking the metal in such a way as to be completely silent. I sit on the bed nervously, not quite sure where to look.

"Have you news?" I ask, at a loss for anything else to say.

"Not quite," he says, with a chuckle, that fires up my cheeks. "No, not quite. I merely came to check that you were ... quite well."

"Thank you for your kindness. I am, as you put it, quite well." I try to remain formal, but his put-on pious face is hilarious.

"Wonderful, Miss Doyle. Spiffing, in fact. I shall take your leave now, unless you wish for me to be detained so that we can discuss matters such as Ascot, or fashionable hats?"

I giggle, and he moves towards me. "I wish to detain you, unfortunately, my dear Mr Kartik. Though not to discuss fashionable hats."

"Good, because I don't know of any." He sits next to me, places his hand on my knee and slides it silkily up my thigh, crumpling the skirt of my dress. His other hand finds my waist, and I forget everything my sister told me, everything she advised me, everything that I know for myself, and sink into to the kiss.

It is long, slow and delicious. He smiles lazily as we break away, and then his fingertips graze part of my thigh and I shudder and moan involuntarily.

"Goodness, Miss Doyle, if Mrs Nightwing were to see you now." I remember these words from before, murmured from Felicity's lips, and I think of her for a second. I wonder what she would do. I wonder what she has already done. And I relax and smile and whisper back to him.

"Please, Kartik ... please."

"If you are referring to what I think you are referring to, then the answer is 'no', I am afraid."

"Why?"

"I couldn't do it. Not to you. Never to you. It would destroy you in a way that you could never comprehend until all men refuse to marry you and your family disown you and you are left alone and regretful."

"I could never regret you. Felicity does not regret it."

He sits back for a moment, a curious expression in his eyes. "Really? Miss Worthington? I cannot say I am surprised. But, Gemma, darling, this is not a competition. Is it, now?"

In my head, it is. Fee is always testing us, daring us, wordlessly mocking us. I feel I have to prove myself to her somehow. So I press into him and stroke his chest, his back, his face. He smiles, presses my fingers to his lips, and sinks down onto me, pushing me into the soft blankets that cover my bed. I remember the first time I saw him, how scared and panicked and furious I felt. How guilty.

Do I feel guilt anymore?

I think the answer is no.

I am moaning and whimpering and gently breathing, entangled in his hair and arms and legs and eyes. The blankets are growing warm and crumpled, our bodies get closer to each other, desperately trying to fulfil this gnawing hunger inside of us that we know, deep down, will only be satisfied with one thing. He takes my earlobe gently in his mouth and bites it softly. I giggle, melt into his hands on my back and on my hair and on my legs. His mouth leaves my ear and trails sweet seductive kisses down my neck, past my collarbone, until he reaches the barrier of my neckline. He glances up, a question in his eyes, and I nod soundlessly. His hands fumble at my dress, pulling it down over my body, tugging at the laces of my corset. I feel a great pressure relieved from my ribs as it falls to the floor, and as I look down, I can see the garment that I so despise being creased and wrinkled by his body. His lifts me gently, in my chemise, and places me on the bed tenderly, before laying on top of me and pushing my thighs apart with his knee. I wrap my legs around him, murmuring and moaning sweet empty words into the spirals of his ear, and he shudders violently and pulls my hips closer. I simply melt.

But he does not. He will not. I always knew it. With a regretful and reluctant sigh, he climbs off of me, shaking the wild and passionate thoughts from his head. I wonder if he looks at me in the same way that I look at him, or whether he really does speak the truth when he says that he does not care for me personally.

I wonder how he can kiss me like that if it is the truth.

I wonder how he can kiss me at all.

* * *

We enter the realms again that night. To my surprise, Evelyn is not waiting for me by the tree. I call out her name half heartedly, praying inwardly that she will not appear, and that I will be left to dance and play and hope and dream and fail with my friends. After a few silent minutes, I give up. She will know where to find me.

We are to play blind mans bluff. I am blindfolded, albeit reluctantly, with a handkerchief conjured from a rose petal. The silk is a lustrous ruby red, and feels soft next to my skin as it is tied around my eyes by Felicity. I bite my lip as I remember the silky, petal soft lips of my gypsy boy, and I know that I am blushing. I can sense Felicity's smirk through the fabric, and she leans close and whispers seductively into my ear, "Now, Miss Doyle, what is the blushing for? Surely you have nothing to fear?" I feel her mouth on mine, hear the muted gasps of Pippa and Ann in the background, and taste the sweetness of her tongue. I don't know why she kisses me, and that is the beauty of it all.

We simply do not know anything.

She spins me 16 times, the number of years I have been on this earth, and then I hear her and the other girls scamper away through the undulating grass and gemtly swaying trees. I think of the hanging vines, what were to happen if I fell through them unknowingly, so I call out to them all to make sure that I do not approach them. Fee calls back, teasingly, "Buff!" but Pippa and Ann assure me that they will not. I follow the sounds of their voices, Pippa's sweet and melodic, Ann's motherly and sensible, Felicity's savage and jagged. I hear them retreating backwards, giggling merrily, all engagements and future employment forgotten as they enjoy being children again.

_Enjoy being young, my dears; enjoy being young and carefree and foolish and happy and wild._

_Oh, so wild._

I stumble upon something, something soft and smooth against my bare feet. It is warm and breathing, and I crouch instantly and run my hands along the silk of the dress, trying to work out which girl it is.

"Fee?"

"Pippa?"

"Ann?"

There is no reply. I call out to the other girls and hear three distinct shouts of "Buff!"

My heart is cold.

I rip the blindfold off, and find Evelyn, lying cold and dead and broken next to me. She is still breathing, yes, but her face is grey and her mouth is parted slightly. The green has faded from her eyes, leaving them dull and empty and soulless.

"Oh God, oh, Evelyn." I shake her slightly, harder now, even harder. Please, Oh God, please wake u,p please, if only to make me feel a fool for worrying so.

"Felicity! Ann! Pippa! Please!"

"Buff!"

"No, the game is over, I have found Evelyn, oh my, oh please, please help me. I don't know what is wrong with her!"

They stumble over to me, their faces draining as they catch sight of her face down in the grass. Pippa recoils, as if my sister is diseased, and I am furious.

"Pippa! Grow up and help me! Please!"

But I know that there is nothing they can do.

I think of the one person who could possibly help me now, the one person who could not use this to destroy me, and I know that I must find him.

I must go after Kartik.


	21. Goodbyes

My hands fly to my locket, but they are stopped in their tracks by a cold white hand. Felicity.

"You cannot go on your own. It would not be safe for one young girl to approach the gypsy camp with no one else."

I think of the events of the night, and decide not to answer.

"I shall accompany you." She decides, and I love her for it. It seems that Pippa, however, does not.

"Oh, no, Fee, you can't! You mustn't! You have to stay here with me and care for ... Evelyn."

I know why Pippa is saying this. I know it all too well. She does not want to be abandoned by Felicity, does not want to be left with the responsibility of my sister on her shoulders. She is weak and cowardly, and secretly I pity the man who will marry her.

"No, Pip, because that would mean Ann were to go with Gemma, and she is so timid that she would be of no use." Ann nods vehemently as Felicity utters these words, and I can see the tension ease form her body. She does not have to be brave, after all.

Pippa looks as though she is about to start sulking, but I have no time for her. I have no time for any of them. For anyone apart from my sister, who I left alone, cold and broken, my selfish heart doing the easy thing, as always. I regret it bitterly; feel my remorse in the pounding of my heart and the flow of tears down my face. Fee embraces me, on finger between us on the locket, and I concentrate, and we are away, collapsing in a heap on the cold dead marble of the great hall. Our legs and arms and hair are tangled, and we run towards the doors half joined together. We are in but our nightgowns, and I think of the looks and leers we shall receive at Kartik's home, but I care not. I care for my sister, and for no one else.

We approach the camp, hear the laughter and music and feel the flickering warmth of the fire through the branches. Fee steps forwards warily, trying to gain as much view as possible, without being seen herself. I can see the awe, the life and excitement flicking away inside of her, and, I confess, I feel it too. I long to stumble merrily down here after the long stuffy days, learning how to be a lady, are over, long to come and dance and sing and love and live.

I cannot wait for the rushing feeling to pass us by; I hurry into the camp and scream his name desperately, not caring who sees me, who hears me. He is seated around the fire tonight, dressed in traditional gypsy clothes, his face relaxed and his eyes soft. I can see my fearful reflection reflected in them.

"Kartik, Oh God, Kartik, you have to help me, please, it's my sister." The words come out in a rush, and I fling myself upon him desperately, plucking at his clothing, tugging at his arms. He has been drinking slightly, I can tell, and he feels warm and peaceful. His arms close around me, and he lifts my head so that he can place a tender kiss on my mouth. But when we break apart, he can see that I am crying.

"What is it, Miss Doyle?"

"My sister. You have to come. I don't know what to do."

He follows me, and I grab Felicity's arm as we hurtle back to the school. Halfway there, I realise that there probably isn't time, and that we could go from anywhere. I slow my speed, catch hold of Felicity, and bade her place a finger on the locket. Kartik does the same, looking confused and sceptical in a way that infuriates me, but I pay it no heed. I place a trembling finger one the locket once more, and then we are rushing and falling through time and colour, life and death, dreams and nightmares, smoke and shadow, a thousand dancing mirrors. We have returned.

His eyes widen in shock, but there is no time for him to explore. I drag him to the place where my sister lies still. Pippa steps back, her eyes round and fearful as she takes in the sight of Kartik, and Ann nods shyly in recognition. Kartik's gaze does not linger on Pippa, and this makes me love him even more.

He only has eyes for me.

Doesn't he?

But it does not matter, because he is checking her breathing and her pulse, rolling her over and peering into her blank eyes. He looks up at me, his forehead knitted in concentration and worry, and speaks the following words gravely.

"I do not know what to do, Gemma. I think she might be-"

"She is not dead! She's breathing!" My words come out in a desperate scream, like a mother who has lost her child and does not know where to find it.

"Gemma, she died 16 years ago. She has been living here ever since. Who knows what the rules of life and death are here?"

"But what can I do?" I glance wildly around the garden, my eyes brimming with tears that I will refuse to let cloud my vision and blur my brain. My eyes whip past the hanging vines and I have answered my own question.

"Mother."

I begin walking towards the vines. I can hear Ann gasp and Pippa cry behind me, hear the pounding footsteps of my two closest friends, feel Fee's cold hand on my wrist as Kartik catches me around the waist. The combined efforts of their strength sends me reeling around, falling in a heap on the fresh sweet fresh of this hellish place. I want to leave I want to leave IwanttoleaveIwanttoleave.

Kartik reaches for me, fighting against my struggling hands and wild eyes. He places one hand on my neck, gently pinning me to the ground. I have nowhere to look but into his liquid velvet orbs.

"Gemma, listen to me. You cannot risk all of this. I will not let you."

"I will do whatever I bloody well like! Get your blasted hands off me!" My language is appalling, but is shocks him enough to make his hands slack and loose, and I push past him and delve behind the vines, wincing in the brilliant light that appears as if from nowhere.

"Gemma, my darling."

"Mother."

I stand before her, the tears falling down my cheeks and the invisible hand clenching tight around my pulsing heart. I feel time stand still, hear nothing but the screams I have caged up inside. I gaze upon her face, the face that has been gracing my dreams and haunting my nightmares ever since her fateful death. I do not know whether I love her or hate her. And that is perhaps what is meant to be.

"Gemma, you found her."

"I did."

"And you told her."

"I did."

"And she ... she told you?" This is not a statement but a question. She does not know.

"Yes, mother. She did."

I can feel it growing now, but this time it is inside of me, and I know I have the strength to fight it, to break it. The darkness, the blackness, the bleakness is overwhelming, overpowering; I do not know whether to run from it, or embrace it. I stand still, gazing resolutely at my mother but never really seeing her at all. I concentrate, wishing hard upon that power that was instilled in me at my birth and Evelyn's death. I wonder if I can win.

I wonder if I ever could.

But as I hear my mother's sweet, lulling voice, and gaze at her face through my curtain of tears, I understand. At last.

At long last.

It is not about knowledge, or power, or victory. It is not even about forgiveness. It is about truth.

And I know that I can speak it to my mother.

"Mother ... I ... I ... I forgive you."

And I know that it is true.

The darkness is flooding my eyes are I whisper the last, churning word. I can hear the howl of a thousand thwarted creatures, used to getting their own way and bending people at their will. I smile, partly in triumph, but partly because I can see my sister begin to live again. She steps through the curtains and is no longer grey and dull and defeated. She is strong and vibrant and full of hope.

But not alive. I know that much.

My sister died the instant she stepped under the waterfall. That water, which should be giving life, destroyed it, and I now know that there are things beyond all comprehension at work here. There are thousands of worlds, some similar to the one that I know, some so different that I could not begin to understand them. I will never see them all.

I will never see it all.

But I have seen enough.

My mother, unfrozen and soft, embraces my sister with tears in her eyes and hope in her heart. I wonder what it must be like to hold your daughter again after 16 years, and pray that I will never know that feeling. They turn to me, and I follow, unsure, almost reluctant at first. They approach the waterfall, and then turn to me.

"Mother ... Evelyn... could you come back with me now?"

But Mother smiles, and shakes her head.

"It was my time, Gemma. It always was. My life is gone now, finished. In that world, at least. I am back with my daughter."

But you are leaving another.

"Gemma, I failed Evelyn once. I could not do it again. You know how much I love you. And I always will. But my time now is for Evelyn."

The words aren't meant to be cruel, but they sting nevertheless. It is like losing my mother all over again, and I cannot bear it. The tears are tumbling, warm and salty, down my face, and I do not care who can see it.

"But mother ... please."

She embraces me, and I inhale her scent for the last time. My mother.

Evelyn approaches me. "Gemma, darling," she says, for one last time, and her eyes fill with tears. She smiles, though, a smile full of hope and wonder and beauty. "Oh, how I will miss you. I knew you for so little time, but you had always been with me, and you always will. Thank you. Thank you so much. We will be waiting for you."

My heart is breaking, but I think of the mission that I accomplished for her. "Evelyn, there is something I must tell you. I found your gypsy. I found him, and I told him you loved him. He said he loved you too. He always will." Mother does not hear, and Evelyn's eyes are once more filled with something that I do not understand.

"Oh, Gemma, thank you. Thank you. And ... and I presume that this," and here she motioned to Kartik, standing awkwardly averting his eyes from our reunion, and also our goodbye, "is your gypsy boy."

And for once the words make me proud. I nod, and she smiles and embraces me once more, holding me tightly, until she kisses me one last time and turns to leave.

"Let me come too!" I cry, and race after them. They are on the stepping-stones now, and turn as I follow them. Kartik catches at my waist, and I try to beat his hands off, but this time he is too strong. This time he means it.

"Gemma, your time has not yet come." Mother calls to me, her hair lifted softly by the velvety breeze. But I cannot think of anything apart from my mother and my sister leaving me once more. Kartik is screaming my name now, his arms so tight around my waist that I am pressed against his chest. I have never hated him more.

"Let me go! Let me go! You have no right to keep me here! I want to be with my family!"

"Gemma." It was my mother, one last time, standing inches before the sheet of water, silky and molten glass. "Gemma, this is your family now." And she motions to Pippa, and to Ann, and to Felicity, and to Kartik. And she gives me one last heartbreaking smile and steps through the water with Evelyn.

"No!" the scream that passes through me is not human, nor is it English. It is savage, wild and fierce, hatred and love and burning desire mixed together to form something broken and deadly. I wrench at Kartik's arms, but he seems to have acquired the strength of ten men, and he holds me fast. His hands are around my waist, their warmth seeping through into my skin, into my soul, until I am spent, and crumple, weeping, into the grass at his feet, his hands holding me still, awkwardly at first, but then more smoothly, stroking my hair and caressing my face and kissing my lips, red and swollen with tears and sorrow.

"I hate you." I whisper jaggedly, repeating it like a lullaby, like the cruellest of prayers to a unforgivable god. His breath is in my ear, murmuring back to me the words that I need to hear.

"I know you do."

And I stand, shaky and forlorn, and grasp the hands of my friends, placing them on my necklace, and cast him one last venomous glance, and place a finger on my necklace.

And place a finger on Felicity. She has stopped me, her gaze seeking out the life in me, the hope and laughter and compassion.

"We are leaving no one behind."

She says it with a certainty that makes me believe her. Kartik approaches me, and I seem not to notice as he touches the necklace, and then we are home.

And they are gone.

* * *

**Dum dum duhm! is it the end for Gemma and Kartik (at least in this version of events)?**

**will update soon ... story is by no means finished yet.**


	22. Hanging From A Hook

It is one week later before I stop refusing to discuss the events of that night. Pippa does not seem to understand. Although I know that to be married against your will must be simply abhorrent, she does not seem to realise that I have lost so much these past few weeks. I do not know that I am strong enough to lose anything else.

"Gemma, darling, please speak to us. You simply must. We're worried about you." Felicity grabs my fingers and interlocks them seductively with her own. I try to tear away, but she is surprisingly strong and her fingers flex and grip mine until I relent, wincing slightly under the pressure.

"Felicity, I've told you, I've told you all, I'm fine. I just don't want to talk about it."

"Well, you don't want to talk about anything, it seems." Pippa pouts petulantly, and a flash of dislike crosses my vision. I don't understand how she can be so selfish and thoughtless, and yet I still regard her as one of my closest friends. I don't understand any of them.

How can Pippa be so distraught over her engagement, when she is using it as a weapon against everyone? She is taking advantage of it, and although I understand that she may want to discuss it, she should at least realise that I may not be in the mood for idle chitchat at the moment. And, similarly, how can Ann be so bold and brave and hopeful one minute and then collapse, beaten and broken, the next? It does not make sense.

But the one who tests my logic and sanity the most is, of course, Felicity. I despise her and adore her all at the same time. She is nothing to me, and she is everything to me, and I love her and hate her and she is cruel and kind and everything imaginable in the world.

She is Felicity.

She holds my hand and kisses my mouth and cuts me with her sharp as steel gaze. But I know she is real. I have the scars to prove it.

I do not see Kartik for that week, and it finally sinks in that, now my mother is gone and my sister is at rest, he has no real reason to stay.

Apart from me.

But I am not a real reason.

It stings, to be truthful. I thought I meant something to him, thought I meant more than rash kisses and grazing fingertips and floating fantasies. But how could I? He was a man, a full-grown man, and I am a 16-year-old schoolgirl. He is a gypsy, and I am a proper English lady. He is dangerous and passionate and wild and I am –

Am I? Am I really boring and insipid and predictable? A meek wife, a good mother, a gossiping society lady? Is that all I really am?

Are any of us?

I know that Felicity is more, certainly. And Ann, well, Ann will never even be that. And Pippa ... it seems as though Pippa will become that, but I will do as much as I can to swim against that current.

My only question is, will _she_?

Her wedding date is set, everything is falling into place. Her parents, her mother in particular, are ecstatic, joyously awaiting the fateful day. The ring gleams wickedly on her finger, a detestable reminder of her destiny every time she looks down.

He has come to meet her.

We are told this in the morning. It is Sunday, and our day of rest. This is when we catch up with work, write letters to our loved ones, continue with our cross stitch and finish our reading books. Some of the younger girls are playing skipping games in various places across the grounds, and I can hear childish laughter as they sing limericks and rhymes.

Felicity, Ann and I are waiting agitatedly in mine and Ann's room. Felicity is pacing the worn floorboards, rhythmically creaking as she steps down on the wood. Ann is chewing her bottom lip, sat slumped in front of the chipped mirror. She tries in vain to awaken her lank, dull hair. I watch, exasperated. It would be so much easier if she were to just ask for our help, but she refuses.

I myself am dressed to perfection: Felicity took care of that. My hair is finely curled, due to the rags that she put in last night by candlelight. My dress is fresh and pressed, and my skin smelling softly of rose water.

I almost wonder why we are going to all of this trouble: he has not come to see us, but Pip. But whenever I try to tentatively bring up the subject, Felicity's eyes flash with irritation, and Ann sighs, defeated.

So I say nothing at all.

Fee reaches the window once more, and squeals in surprise. A handsome carriage pulls up to the school, and we can hear it, even up here, crunching across the neat gravel. Fee is out of the door before Ann even rises, and I grab her hand and drag her after me.

"Why are we running?" pants Ann, breathless, and I hurtle round the bend in the stairs and arrive, gasping and trying to regain my composure, in front of the door.

Pippa looks delightful, and I know that she detests it. She is wearing a dress of pale blue silk, with a matching ribbon in her hair and little white gloves. She positively shines, but Felicity breathes in her ear, "Pip, darling, you look simply horrendous. Once he sees you, he will, no doubt, break off the engagement." Pippa tries to smile weakly, but it comes out as a pathetic little thing, and Felicity withdraws. We pretend to be idly walking through, although I can tell that Mrs Nightwing is not fooled. She smiles archly at us as we pace for the third time. Then the maid hurries to open the door and we crane surreptitiously to catch sight of the man that has claimed our dear Pippa.

He is old, older than I would have thought, 40 at least. He leers in the direction of Pippa, who can barely hide her distaste. He is balding and portly, with a red face and blubbery lips. He casts a wayward glance in our direction, and his eyes rest upon, first Felicity, and then me. I feel like I am a piece of meat hanging from a hook in a butchers shop, being eyed up by some customer. It is, altogether, and unpleasant experience, and my sympathy for my dear Pip grows even more.


	23. The Greatest Fear Of All

Pippa wanders in the grounds with her fiancé. We detest him from the beginning, detest the way he explores us with his eyes and his imagination. My stomach turns when he turns to me, and licks his lips when no one else is looking. I glance away, tear Fee and Ann from the throng gathering around our dearest friend, drag them to a darkened corner and whisper furiously at the cruelty of Pippa's parents.

"How can they be so despicable? He is old enough to be her father, and the way he was looking at us! I mean, really!"

Felicity shrugs, and looks unconcerned, and I feel a prickling hatred towards my friend.

"Fee, she's supposed to be one of us!" Ann frowns, bites her lip, and I feel like shaking them both.

"Well, what can we do about it? I mean, it's not as if we can call it off, can we?" She turns away, inspect her nails, holding them this way and that to catch the light. They shine like blades in the sun.

Pippa comes in, hours later, weary and forlorn. She kicks off her boots, after tugging at the laces half-heartedly, and flings herself down dramatically onto her bed.

We are in her and Fee's chamber. It is much prettier that ours, the floorboards polished until gleaming and the window frames freshly painted. Pippa sinks down into her pillow and shakes, and we all know that she is crying.

"Pip, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to do." I sit uselessly next to her, unsure of whether to touch her or leave her be. Perhaps we should ignore it all.

"I just can't bear it, Gemma. I simply can't. How my mother can do this to me! She is ignoring every plea, every imploring letter I have sent. She is determined to break me." She sobs, and Ann rushes across the room to her, stroking her irritatingly on the head, like some scolded child or shy kitten.

"Fee?" I raise my head, and see her standing at the window, her back slightly turned towards me. The sun streams down for a second, free of some cloud, and illuminates her face. My Fee is crying.

I do not mention it in front of Pip and Ann: they have far too much to be worried about. Instead, I find her after dinner; lure her away from her books and her mirror, and into the garden. We stroll briskly down the path where out friendship was first forged. It seems so long ago.

"Fee, what's the matter? Why were you crying?"

She does not answer, and we stay silent for a few minutes, taking in the breathtaking scenery of our home. Spence. The place of my sister's death.

"Fee, I know you were crying? Why?"

"It is none of your business." Her tone is curt and cold, and I recoil in surprise. What is this Fee, who kisses me and holds me and cuts me so smoothly with her poisoned words? This is not a friendship. This is...

Something that I do not understand, and never will.

"Fee..."

She tears her arm from mine, turns to face me with hateful tears glistening in her eyes. Her cheeks are almost translucent, and, in this moment of rage, she is terrifying.

"Pippa has been my dearest friend all of my life, Gemma! Do you not understand friendship? Companionship? Is it beneath you? How she can be married off, heartbroken and lost, and I cannot do anything about it! Do you not think it is killing me? I am powerless. And it frightens me to my very core."

She collapses against me, and I try to support her, but inside I feel the same. Our Pippa, our dear, hateful, spiteful Pippa, our selfish and vain and thoughtless Pippa.

Our wonderful Pippa who we cannot let slip through our fingers.

And at once I know what we must do.


	24. Endings And Beginnings

They meet us in the hall, and their faces are streaked with tears. I have told no one of my plan, not yet. First, we must return.

We place a finger on the locket and at once we are there, and it has not changed.

But there is an aching absence of Evelyn.

I look around, desperately, knowing in my heart of hearts that she is gone, and that I cannot follow her. But still I turn, and gaze, and peer into even the darkest corners.

I turn towards the vines, and let out a yelp, because they have gone.

In their place is a beautiful statue, carved precisely into perfection, and yet it looks as though it has been there since time began, part of nature itself. It is a girl, around our age, carved into silvery stone. She is naked, but one of her legs is positioned in a way in which shields her modesty. Her wild long hair falls, covering the curve of a breast, and her hand plays with her curls, protecting the other from prying eyes. A perfect pout is playing with her lips, and she looks directly at me. It seems contrived, unnaturally faultless.

I wonder for a long time at this new appearance. Who put her there? Why?

They seem not to notice the girl, and yet I as mesmerised. Pippa and Ann, and even Fee dance and spin and laugh and sing and play for what seems like mere seconds and long hours. But the girls' eyes are following my every movement. Occasionally I turn towards her, try to understand what she reminds me of, but I cannot.

"Gemma! Gemma, darling!" Pippa calls to me, her hair tousled and crumpled from their games. I tear my eyes from the carving, join my friends and slowly lose myself in nothingness, in empty words and careless kisses and the belief that we could be different.

We return, drowsy and flushed, our lips red and our eyes heavy and dark. We stumble up the stairs, kiss each other goodnight, and head for slumber.

But I cannot. I toss and turn and my mind drifts to Kartik.

His face. His dark curls. The strong outline of his nose, the petal soft of his lips, the inky velvet of his eyes. The stubble coating his jaw, the line of hair ending at his waistband, the shapely muscles covering his chest. The way he feels on top of me, testing me, trying me, his knee separating my thighs, his gossamer fingertips exploring every inch of me, his breath, soft and dewy on my neck, his kisses, heavy and warm as spring rain.

Kartik.

Please don't go.

I wake, startled and tingling, every nerve ending on fire. I know he is here, and he has been watching me sleep.

"Kartik?"

He rises from his seat, walks towards me, and I struggle into a sitting position. He touches me before he speaks, running a hand through my tangled curls. My face is warm, and his fingertips feel like icy silk across them.

"Gemma..."

He leaves the words unsaid, dangled tantalisingly in front of me. He has not gone. He stayed.

For me?

"Kartik ... what are you doing?" My eyes are wide open, despite my sleep, and I shift slightly on the bed, subtly pushing back the blankets and exposing my bare legs. My nightdress has ridden up and I wonder if he will object.

If he will even notice.

"Gemma... I came to say sorry."

At first his words mean nothing. I do not understand, I cannot understand. What must he apologise for? Then I remember. But, strangely, my feelings do not resurface. I understand why he would not let me go, I understand everything.

"That is alright, Kartik. I mean, at the time, it killed me, I had to watch as my mother and sister ... but I am fine, now, really. I have missed you."

He does not respond, and a slinking warning of dread, slithers up my spine.

"Gemma ... now that I have done what my task was ... there is no reason for me to stay."

I know the meaning of the words, but I will not accept them. He is lying, testing me. Seeing if I will break. I am about to reply, when we hear a noise from the hall outside my bedroom door and he is gone, swift as an arrow, through the window. I am not sure if he is climbing down to the soft grass below, but he is gone. I use these precious seconds to rinse my mouth out with rose water, next to the sink. The light, and the shuffling footsteps depart, and I go to the window and call his name gently.

"Kartik."

He reappears, but seems reluctant to re-enter the room. I refuse to stand by the window listening to him talk though, so he eventually relents, and climbs back in. Before I know what he is doing, I am pressed up roughly against the wall, his tongue exploring my mouth and his hands on my waist. My nightdress in caught up between us, and I can feel my bare thighs pressed against his legs. He seems to notice, because his fingertips stray down to them, and, lifting me slightly, he wraps me around his waist. My virtue is pressed against him, and he chuckles softly as he reaches out a hand and pushes my curls away from my face.

"Gemma, Gemma, what could I do without you?"

I say nothing, merely moan breathlessly, and press closer to him again. He lifts me tenderly, lays me on the bed, and his fingertips stray once more to the hem of my nightgown. He pushes the crumpled cotton up, until his fingers are resting of the smooth expanse of my stomach. I tense, unsure of whether I want to continue.

He is a gypsy boy, after all.

He knows I have thought it, because he stands, and glares down at me coldly.

"What, am I not good enough for you?"

I struggle into a sitting position, my hand at my locket instinctively, and the magic courses through me once more. I lean back down, cock my hips sensually, and push down the sleeves of my nightgown so that I reveal unto im my collarbones, and the creamy curves of my breasts.

I can see his willpower buckling, and I revel in this power that I seem to hold over him. Not for the first time, I understand why Felicity craves this feeling so very much. I understand so much.

But he just leans down, places the sweetest of kisses on my forehead, pulls the blankets over my body gently, and whispers the word 'goodbye'.

And he has broken me.


	25. The Cheek Of Cecily Something or Other

I do not think of his words all of the next day, and all of the day after that. I cannot. I will not. He does not mean them.

It is his way, after all. Empty threats and emptier promises.

Pippa is to be married at Christmas. A winter wedding, filled with snow and holly and Christian charity.

I do not feel charitable at all. And neither, it seems, does anyone.

Assembly Day comes and goes. Felicity, despite Miss Moore's protestations, presents her mother and father defiantly with her rotten fruit painting, and they accept it with mingled surprise and icy politeness.

"Well, Felicity, this is ... unusual."

"Simply, lovely, I think, mother."

"What do they teach you at this school, anyway, Fee, darling?"

"How to be a lady."

And no more was said about it.

My father does not come, and I cannot say I am not thankful. Instead, the handsome Tom reappears, and it quickly develops into him preening and strutting around in front of the prettier girls, watching as their eyes follow him from room to room. They make excuses to come and talk to us. Even Cecily, the hateful creature.

"Why, Gemma, you must introduce me to your dear gentleman friend!" She approaches me, late morning, her parents close behind.

"Cecily, this is my brother, Tom."

"Thomas, please, Gemma, darling." He tries to speak jovially, but he steps on my heel slightly, and I grin in satisfaction.

"Tom, _darling, _this is a girl called Cecily something or other, who has never been friendly to me in the past and I can't think why she has started being so."

Her face is a picture. A look of frozen politeness disappears, to be replaced by a look of complete and utter indignation. She laughs, falsely, and smiles in my direction.

"Oh, Gemma, do stop joking. Gemma is actually a close friend of mine, Mr Doyle."

"No, I'm not. Cecily doesn't like me and I don't like her. Go away now, Cecily, you have proved yourself both shallow and two faced today, and I think that is quite enough. I daresay my brother will be falling over himself to dance with you later on."

Perhaps it is childish and perhaps it is spiteful, but she deserves it. I am dragged away by my brother, who hisses furiously at me under his breath.

"Never in all my life... can't imagine the impression ... her poor parents ... that dear girl ... so rude ... must apologise immediately ... quite charming ... lies and dishonesty ... what your Grandmama is paying for your education ... and you do not deserve a penny, Gemma Doyle!"

if he were to say this 6 weeks ago, I would have begged him, implored him, even, to take me from the school and back to my family, to my father and my Grandmama and everything familiar. But now so much has happened. This is my home. So I smile insipidly and promise to be quite and courteous for the rest of the visit.

Unsurprisingly, my brother is keen to avoid dear Cecily, so we spend a lot of time in the grounds. I feel somewhat proud at showing him around, acting like I have been here for centuries, am part of the school. I walk like a lady and laugh attractively at his small jokes, and pretend to listen with great interest to his mind numbingly boring stories of London. I drift away, instead, to a world where everything is simple and carefree, where Tom does not exist, and neither does Cecily, and where I can dream and laugh and weep and no one will question a second.

"...and I expect you're wondering why father couldn't be with you today."

I am startled back to the here and now, and say, "Yes, why is that? Is he quite alright?"

Tom sighs heavily, and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he speaks.

"Gemma, I'm afraid father's condition has somewhat weakened."

I know what these words mean, and yet I am still angry at Tom. I want to make him say the words out loud.

"What on earth do you mean? What condition?"

"Father's ... weakness?"

"You mean his weak knee? Must he have surgery?"

"No, Gemma, nothing of the sort. What I mean in ... the laudanum."

"Oh."

I am silent for an extremely long time, and Tom fidgets and mumbles and clears his throat until he cannot bear it any longer. He turns to me and whispers urgently, "Gemma, father is to be relocated to a sanatorium, out in the countryside, Dorset, I do believe, for a little rest and relaxation. I am sure he will improve greatly there."

"Oh?"

"Yes. And I have alerted the school to this and they will allow you to visit him, one Sunday soon, if you should so desire."

I think about this. I do miss my father, and wish nothing more than to see him, but that is the problem. I wish to see my father. I do not wish to see the hollow shell of a man that he will surely have become, I do not wish to hear his rasping, papery voice, once so booming and jovial, and I do not wish to have to kiss his pale and sunken cheeks, and listen to him as he skirts desperately around the reason I must visit him in the sanatorium. I do not wish to see the man my father has become.

"No, Tom. I do not wish to visit father."

I can hear him breathe a sigh of relief, and he leans close, with a slight smile on his face, and murmurs the words, "Good, because I haven't alerted the school to his condition. I would dream of doing so."

Ah, good old Tom. Old shallow, selfish, vain, status obsessed Tom.

I haven't travelled that far from the real world at all, then.


	26. Red Rowing Boats

Assembly day is over, thank the lord. Tom left, sniffing and cold as usual, and I smiled politely until his carriage turned the corner. Checking to make sure that I was completely alone, I began to use the most vulgar and obscene language I knew. Most of which I learnt from Tom, when we were young.

When we were children.

I used to cry when he left. Now I smile in satisfaction.

Turning at the corner of the school, hoping to find Fee or Pippa, and moan with them about the awful day, I run into Ann, and remember that she has not had any visitors today. She has no one to prepare a recital or painting or cross stitch for. I think of how lost she looks, amongst happy families, doting fathers and preening mothers and haughty brothers. I think of how brave she is and how hopeless her bravery is, and I cry for her.

And, like the coward I am, I leave her, because I do not want to have to help her share her burden of misery, because I am an English lady and this is what we do.

* * *

Kartik does not reappear that day, nor the next, nor the next. His words have not yet sunk in. I do not believe he has left me, but as the weeks drag on, it seems as though I was mistaken. He has. 

We travel back to the realms most nights. We have dark shadows round or eyes, heavy with sleep and with life and with death. It is not supposed to make sense. Is anything supposed to make sense?

Evelyn does not reappear, and so I stop looking for her. It seems as though everyone I have ever loved is leaving me now. Mother, Father, Evelyn, Tom, Kartik.

And Pippa.

Her day draws closer, and her fiancé, the delightful Mr Bumble, visits more and more often. He seems greasy, somehow, and you can see Pippa shudder as he touches her silky skin, whispers vulgarities into her creamy ear. You can see the lust in his eyes, but the worst thing is that it does not leave with Pippa. When he looks at me, and Fee and even Ann, it is still there, glistening wetly in the light.

My poor darling Pippa.

Snow begins to fall at the end of November. Snow, which I've never seen before. They revel in it, squawking delightedly, but I must confess I was wary to begin with. I could not understand how something that looks so fresh and crisp and fluffy could be so cold and sharp. But I fell in love with it, and soon wondered why snow did not fall everyday, lovely as it was.

It is one day, mid November, when we are playing outside in the grounds. We have soaked ourselves through after hurling balls of snow (which Fee sarcastically told me were called 'snowballs') at each other, and then Ann has the wonderful idea of playing hide and seek. Fee immediately begins counting, and when we try to tell her we haven't had any time to get ready, she simply begins counting louder and more insistently, until at last we give up and run off, squealing as the snow we kick up slithers into our boots and makes our feet tingle.

I do not know that I am in the woods until I stumble into the clearing that Kartik had first kissed me in. I sink down, against a tree, and survey the scene.

The tears that I expect do not come. I think of him, of his eyes, his mouth, his fingertips. But most of all I think of his ways. Secretive and sly, silent as shadows.

Can I miss something I never truly had?

I hear a rustle in the undergrowth near me. I stand immediately, glancing around, my heart suddenly in my mouth. What awful thing could be hunting me?

It is as I turn around, checking the other way, that it pounces.

I try to scream, but it is covering my mouth, and drags me down into the bushes. It is not savage, nor even animal. It is him. He spins me round, and my eyes open wide. He did stay.

But he does not smile, or laugh, or even kiss me. He looks me directly in the eyes, and pulls something out of his pocket. A long piece of muslin.

"Don't say a word." He hisses, and then his arms are around my neck and tightening the gag. I splutter, sure that he is trying to kill me, but his fingers find the hollow of my throat and press. Hard.

He _is_ trying to kill me.

"Kartik ... please." I try to whisper, but the gag prevents my voice from being heard. I watch helplessly as he ties my wrists together. I feel the chill wind slice through my already sodden dress, clinging to my shape, and, for the first time in front of him, I wish I were more covered.

He lifts me onto his shoulder, so that my face falls next to his. I try to plead with him with my eyes, but all he does is impatiently sweep my hair out of his vision, and carries me towards the boathouse. I try kicking at his back, but one glare from him quells me.

I wonder why he still controls me.

I wonder if he is going to kill me.

I wonder so many things all at once that I do not notice, for a few seconds, that we are not heading for the boathouse, but the little red rowing boat, loosely secured by a piece of fraying rope. He deposits me in it, slips some heavy things into my pockets, and into his too, and begins rowing.

I wonder at what he is hoping to achieve by doing this. Perhaps he intends to kill both of us. Perhaps I do not care.

We get to the middle of the lake, and he stops. He looks at me for a few seconds, leans across and kisses my forehead, and whispers the words "Trust me."

And he grips my hands in his own, stands, and pulls me with him into the depths of the big black lake.

And I find that I am no longer scared of dying, because I am with him.

**used 'mr finchley' because my version of what was going to happen was very different, but have changed plot now so we're back to bartleby bumble. and what a pleasant man he is.**


	27. Two Empty Vessels

**This is from Felicity's POV. Unusual for me to swap, but felt that the story needed it.**

**Have to say thank you so so SO much for all the positive feedback ... don't say it enough. Has given me a lot of confidence. This story might even get finished ... :D**

**Anyway ... enough of me.**

I am sodden and socking, my chemise clinging to my skin through my dress. I know that she went into the forest; peeked through my fingers when I was sure they weren't looking. Never one to abide by the rules, never one to conform.

How I love it.

She stumbled through the first few trees, and was swallowed up into the misty darkness of the thicket beyond. I do not look for Pippa and Ann. I have no time for them. They will have hidden somewhere unimaginative. Probably inside the great hall, sipping hot blackcurrant and cocoa, helping themselves to warm mince pies, laughing at our childishness, watching through the window and through the snowstorm and through their own bleak lives as we live like they have never known.

I am in love with Gemma Doyle, and I am not a sapphist.

I smirk as the words run through my mind; imagine the blush creeping through her cheeks. She would not be able to meet my eyes, would tear her hands from mine, run and leave me like so many others have left me before. It does not make me angry or bitter and lost. It makes me content.

Because this is what I am. I am meant to be misunderstood and hated. People are wary and hostile, and that is the way I like it. They say I am too complicated for them to understand, but the truth is that I am far too simple. My words and my glances and my behaviour shock them, shock them into submission and shock them into keeping a distance.

This is what I am meant for. This is what I am here for.

My boots rub at my soles uncomfortably, and so, after looking around, I find a clearing, sit lightly on a tree stump, and drag them off. I do not want to carry them; they will only hinder me further. Instead, I tie the laces together, so that they are one object, and scale a tree slightly, flinging them across a bough, so that they hang, quivering and swinging, a boot on either side.

I am happy.

I peel off my dress also. The gypsies do not live around here, and even if they did I would simply have to kiss them and laugh with them and make them fall for me, and I would be powerful once again. Pippa and Ann do not understand this addiction.

Gemma is beginning to, I find.

I stand shivering in the winter air in nothing but my chemise. It clings to my every curve, the cotton stained with water so it is almost transparent. I wonder if I am common, and then I realise that as long as my parents have money I will never be so.

I hear footsteps, creaking and cracking of twigs. They are far away, and yet I am able to follow them.

I find I am nearing the lake, hear the soft click of the water as it laps against the pebbly beach. I can see nothing, hear nothing, and I wonder if I have died and no one has told me.

I stumble out, beside the lake, and stare transfixed at its centre.

A little red rowing boat, normally secured by a fraying rope by the jetty, its oars askew, silvery ripples spreading from its core.

A little red rowing boat, as empty as they come.

**Very short, I know, but I thought I would include it to see what everyone thought. Don't worry; we'll be seeing more of the apparently suicidal Kartik and his beloved (?) Gemma soon.**

**Laughs evilly at hints**.

**Mwahahaha.**

**Ha.**

**Coughs. **


	28. Fingertips

**I actually did some research about Victorian clothes for this one. They had to wear up to 6 petticoats. 6. S.I.X.**

**Very proud of the authenticity of this one. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: However much I may want to be the creator of A Great And Terrible Beauty, and Rebel Angels, and, in particular, Kartik, I am not. It's sad, but there you go.**

**Oh yeah, and this one is pretty risqué, so put the kids to bed.**

**If you have kids.**

**Which I don't.**

**For god's sake, stop frowning at the screen and read.**

We are diving and drifting and dreaming, intertwined together as we sink gently to peace. I do not struggle or scream or try to save myself, because this is where I want to be. In his arms, safe and sound, forever and ever and ever.

The stones in our pockets drag us slowly down, and it is when the light, glimmering dully on the surface of the water, had faded from view, and I find myself icy, cold and sightless, that I begin to struggle. Twisting and writhing in his arms, I feel rather than hear a sharp rip as the seams of my dress tear. I slip out of the folds of material, swift and silent as nightfall, and feel him grasp at my ankles. With the stones long gone in the folds of my dress, there is nothing weighting me down. I begin to drift upwards, and the light begins twinkling again.

A strong hand wraps itself around my ankle: he has caught me. I try to kick him off, but he is far more powerful than me. I do not know whether I hear a laugh: it cannot be, it should not be, I am far below the world and all it's insignificant little melodramas. I am dying.

The air is forced from my throat as Kartik tugs me back down to him. His eyes are furious, yet I involuntarily press my body against his, for warmth and comfort. We are, once more, sinking, and again I hear that laughter. His arm is around my waist; my chemise is flooded with the lake water, floating up around me as we descend. I am ashamed, for he had made it clear that he does not love me. My legs wrap around his waist, even so, for I am terrified. It is like I am a child again, insistent that I am taken up to bed, because the monsters and witches and demons will steal me away otherwise. I feel the warmth of his skin tickle my bare thighs, and suddenly, we begin tumbling, rushing head over heels through warm, sunny waters, and this is not right, this is not real, for we are cold and bleak and alone and dead. He clings to me and we spin, faster and faster, and I find my voice is not lost, and I scream and scream his name, scream to stop, my arms wrapped tightly around his neck, my face buried in his feather soft curls. I can never remember being this frightened. This must be death, and I despise it.

There is a sound, coming to me over the rush of the wind and the shrill screams emanating from my own mouth. Kartik is speaking, soft and sure, yet his words send spears of ice driving relentlessly into my heart.

"Gemma, you have to let go! Do it!"

How can I let go of the one thing that is keeping me here? Keeping me alive? How can he ask me to let go of the one real thing I have ever known, how can I let go of our fevered kiss and fumbling fingers and gossamer dreams? How can he let me fall like this, without knowing we will be falling together?

"Gemma, let go! Now!"

I find my fingers being prised off the smooth expanse of his back, feel my legs wrenched form his waist, and find myself alone, so alone, falling and dying and never even living.

The clouds are sinking down upon me, tickling my face with their velvety softness. I press my face into them, through them and find that the world has burst into a million dazzling pinpricks of light. My eyes clench instinctively, I roll over and press my face into the sweetness of the rich earth and damp grass.

"Gemma?"

I choose not to respond. If I am dead, it is all his fault anyway, and even if I am not, I never want to speak to him again. He let me fall, and watched without a word.

"Gemma. Come on, I know you're not dead. Stand up."

It is anger more than anything that causes me to haul myself upwards, albeit inelegantly, and scream into his face, my eyes glittering painfully green (for I can see them reflected into his melting brown orbs), "What the _bloody hell _do you think you're doing? What the _hell_?"

He is taken aback, shocked into silence by my behaviour and my language. I glance around us, unsure of what has happened. I felt the darkness, suffocatingly empty, close around me once more, felt the cold slither along my bones, and felt the relief shudder through my body. I urged myself towards the light that was twinkling ahead of me. I cannot remember what happened then, but I know that we are safe, and, mysteriously, dry.

"What happened? Where are we?" For as I look about myself know, it becomes instantaneously clear that we are not back at the lake, with the silver surface and forgotten boathouse and worn rowing boats. We are someplace mysterious, magical and completely alive. Flowers bubble their way through vivid green grass, blooming and exploding in a myriad of colours before my very eyes. I feel the scent of a thousand blossoms drift like a ribbon around me, becoming trapped in my hair, in my eyes, and in my lips. I am instantly drowsy and ludicrously happy, like nothing could ever go wrong, like nothing ever has, like mother and Evelyn are not dead, like father is well and Felicity is simple and Pippa is alone and Ann is rich. And Kartik...

I turn towards him, and his is every inch the gentleman I have so wanted to see him as. His rugged clothes have gone; he is toned and tidy, a wondrous sight in gentlemen's clothing. He steps towards me, plays with a loose curl at the side of my head. It glints auburn on his fingers, which are smooth and clear and have clearly never worked a day in their life. I glance down, and gasp in delight and surprise, for my dress has been restored, shining and glorious, and I feel like a princess. He leans down, kisses me on the lips, and whispers softly in my ear, "Gemma, darling, I have wanted you to find this place for so long."

I do not understand what he means. He knew about it? He brought me here?

"What?" my voice comes out soft and breathy, even though I have just downed copious amounts of freezing lake water.

"Gemma, here we can be together and you will not have to be ashamed. Here, we are what we make ourselves. I am what you made me, and you are what I made you."

His arm encircles my waist, and I feel the softest of kisses, exploring my neck, my collarbone, my earlobe, lean back and relax and drift and dream away, and who cares if I have fallen, because I've fallen straight into paradise.

His nimble fingers unbutton my dress, and I feel it slip to the grass beneath us. My chemise is soft and opaque, and yet I am not embarrassed in his presence. He lowers me to the grass, lies next to me, and then suddenly I realise that something is wrong.

"Kartik ... no." I breathe into the spirals of his ear. He stops immediately, looks down at me with the utmost concern, and I smile in spite of myself.

"Kartik, don't you see? It is not this I want," I continue, motioning to his attire, "it is you. I love _you_, Kartik. _You._ I love you as a gypsy, and I love you as a danger, and I love you as..." I glance down, suddenly shy. "as a proper english girl would not." I look deep into his eyes, see the flicker of understanding flare once, twice, and continue. "I am not a proper English girl, Kartik, and I never want to be. Proper English girls sip tear and eat lunch and gossip at dinner parties. I want you, Kartik. Every inch the gypsy."

I close my eyes, reopen them, and he is back, in his rough cotton shirt and frayed, ragged trousers. His curls are wild and soft, and the stubble on his perfect chin irresistible. I lean up, kiss his once on the lips, and I know that this is what I want. I want to be in a world where I can lie with him, and lay with him, and kiss him and have him and no one will know a thing. I am here, and so is he, and this is all I need.

I do not remember clearly removing his shirt. I am suddenly gazing at a finely muscled, toned and tanned torso, flexing and moving with me. I am transfixed. I run my fingertips along, exploring every inch of him. It feels as though this is the first time, the first time of everything. We are not being foolish and irresponsible. We are in love. He shudders, like that time in the tent, and falls down into his back. I let my fingers trail along him, from the hollow of his neck to the waistband of his trousers. I can feel him tensing under my touch. I wonder what he is thinking.

"Gemma..." he murmurs, and I lean down and kiss him lightly on his stomach. I let my lips trail down the length of him, and then back up to his lips. He seems to come alive, slipping an arm around me and rolling over, so that he is trapping me beneath his weight. Easing my petticoats off, he begins kissing my neck, nipping and flicking with his tongue where my pulse flickers gently. I gasp, arching my back slightly, and he relents. I can feel his smile against the flesh of my cheek. His fingertips explore my neck and collarbone, and then ease the drawstring neckline of my chemise down gently, until the creamy curves of my breasts are clearly visible. I do not know where to look. It all seems so new. It is like I have been reborn, given a new skin, and I myself do not know it yet. His fingertips stray to my thighs, gently creasing the material until it is bunched around my waist. His hands reach round it my back and gently unbutton my drawers. I tense, not knowing what is to come. He can feel my worry, and so instead, begins to pull of my chemise. The cotton covers my eyes for a second, and during that time a thousand thoughts rush through my mind. He is going to see me.

Every inch the schoolgirl.

"Gemma, please, relax. I love you."

His words finally sink in, and so instead I embrace him. He finds my eyes, gazes deep into them, and my fingers find his waistband, ease down the ragged trousers. He kicks them off, and we embrace, just lying there for minute after minute, feeling our solidarity, our complete trust for each other flow through us, between us, take us over.

He kisses my collarbone, his hands stray to the waistband of my drawers, and I demand my privacy from there forward.

**Didn't want to make it too smutty.**

**Please review, otherwise I shall be petulant and refuse to write any more.**


	29. A Sinister Paradise

We sleep like that, in each other arms, covered by our abandoned clothing. Kartik has draped my dress across my body to keep me warm, I find. I gaze at him, asleep in my arms. His curls are feathery and wild, his chin coated in the finest of stubble. He is breathing deeply, his lips rippling endearingly with every exhalation. I extricate myself from him, tangled as we are, and stand, shivering in the morning breeze. Flowers are still blossoming through the fat grass, and I stumble to the lake, gaze down at my reflection.

For the first time in my life, I am beautiful.

He has made me so.

And then I gasp, because I have seen something I recognise. Peering more intently down into the crystal clear waters, I see a red rowing boat. It seems suspended in the water, deep, deep down. I almost cannot see it. It flickers into being with every ripple of the water, and I grow frustrated. A red rowing boat.

I know that boat.

It seems as if every part of my previous existence slips through my fingers as I try to grasp at memories, grasp at reasons. I am a new person, no longer a girl, but a lady. A face flickers into view. It is a girl white blonde hair and big smoky eyes, with a mocking smile and the palest of skin. She twirls in my vision seductively, blows me a kiss, and disappears. I frown, try to recall her name. Fee-something.

Another girl, this one twice as beautiful but twice as ordinary, with glossy dark ringlets and a petulant pout. I instantly take a dislike to her, but then realise that tears are streaming down her face as she is reaching out her hands.

For me?

For anything.

I turn from the lake, stumble back up to where he lies, undisturbed and beautiful. I touch his chest, expecting him to melt away into thousands of silken butterfly wings. He is real, real to the touch, real to the taste. His lips are soft and warm, achingly delicious. He does not wake.

I drag on my chemise, gazing around me fearfully as I sit next to my sleeping beauty. His refusal to wake is beginning to scare me. In a fit of terror, I shake him vigorously, screaming his name, the tears suddenly pouring down my face.

He is not dead. He is drowsy. Sitting up, and rubbing his eyes, I see the muscles on his chest tauten and relax. I sink into his embrace, sobbing quietly, while he wakes fully and expresses concern.

Such concern.

"Where are we?" I cry into his shoulder. He strokes my hair softly, murmuring words in a tongue I do not understand. They reassure me anyhow, but I still cannot forget the sight of the crying girl, the smiling girl, the little red boat that is haunting my vision.

"Gemma? Gemma? Are you all right? What have you seen?"

"A boat. Oh, god, a boat." I rock against him gently, and his stroking does not cease, but as soon as the words have parted with my lips, I tense, knowing how stupid and childish they sound.

"A ... boat? A boat?"

"Mmm." I nod, once, twice, and he chuckles. "There is no boat, Gemma."

"Not on the lake. In the lake."

He pushes away from me, holds me by the shoulders. "Well, of course." My frown is self-explanatory. He gazes at me in complete bewilderment for a second or two, but then his face clears and he says, "Ohhhh. Did I not tell you?"

"You would have thought my expression would have been sufficient." My sharp tongue cuts into his words before I can stop it, but he laughs, and holds me close once more. "I am sorry, Gemma. I forgot to tell you."

"Well, tell me now, then."

"All right." And so he does.

"I found this lake ... the night that ... the night of the dagger."

I know what he means.

"I planned ... I planned to ... end it all. For myself. You understand? Yes. Of course you do. I put stones in my pockets, and rowed to the deepest part of the lake, and ... jumped in.

"Everything happened. I was sinking, and then I realised that ... something wasn't right. You remember it, don't you?"

I frown, shake my head. I remember arriving here, but not how, not when, not where from. I remember the night. That is all I am. That is all I ever was.

"Gemma? You can remember everything, can't you? The lake. The boat. Spence?"

The word is familiar. Perhaps it is the name of a kindly uncle or perhaps it is even my father.

No. It is ... a building. Bleak and cheerless, but my home. The place of so many adventures.

Adventures to where? With whom? My head is buzzing with thousands of questions that I do not hold the answer to.

"You do remember Felicity?"

Felicity.

Of course.

I smile in spite of myself as it comes flooding violently back, a thousand memories all at once. Her painting of fruit, our kiss in the alcove, her black, black eyes, Felicity crying, kissing, laughing and hating, Felicity dancing, Felicity living –

"Felicity."

It is more than a word. It is alive.

"Yes. Anyway, I arrived here. I looked around, realised that everything I ever wanted would be mine."

"Why didn't you stay?"

"Because..." he leaves the rest of his sentence unspoken, dangling in front of me so close I can taste it.

"Because?"

"You weren't here."

There we go. Just one reason for living, one person who loves me, and I am content. I am loved.

"We must return."

"How?"

Perhaps I am stupid. It is a possibility I have considered far too often.

"How we arrived here. Diving into the lake. Making sure we drown."

What a wonderful idea, dear Kartik. Just what I feel like doing. Drowning myself.

"You _are_ joking?"

He shakes his head ruefully, bites his lip, and risks a quick glance in my direction. I know exactly what I look like. I am stood in my chemise, red hair dripping down my back in crimson curls, my green eyes flashing with annoyance, daring him to prove me wrong, my skin positively glowing white, hands on my hips.

I am my mother, and it makes me smile.

"Drowning ourselves. That does sound fun." I murmur, and cock my head, inspecting the lake. "And we do have to – what was it? Dive?"

"There is no boat to take us to the centre."

"Indeed there is not, dear Kartik. My lovely Kartik."

"Your lovely Kartik." He grins, struggles into a sitting position, drags on his clothes and hurls me my petticoats. Felling slightly indignant, I drag them on, along with my dress and boots, and wait for him down by the lake. I feel strangely self-conscious in all my pretences. Lace and silk and diamonds.

Silk and diamonds.

Dear Ann.

He, too, clearly does not know how to react now that I am all formal and virtuous again. He tries to joke, bows ostentatiously, kisses my outstretched hand, murmurs breathily into my ear, words that mean nothing and never have.

"Shall we?"

Not waiting for a response, he bends down and retrieves four smooth pebbles. He embraces me, slipping two into my pockets, and placing two in his. He kisses my cheek, and then looks deeper into my eyes than he ever has before, and asks me the question, "Shall I go first?"

"We cannot go together?" My heart is once more in my mouth, and I cannot swallow it. He shakes his head. "We could not get out deep enough together. Do you want me to go first, so you can see what to do?"

At first I am indignant – he is not better than me simply because he wears trousers – but then I understand his words. He had done this before. He knows what to do. I do not. I have always been foolish and arrogant, and the combination of the two in never good. That has been proved sufficiently, I am sure you will agree.

I nod, once, and he is gone, diving into the water with hardly a splash. Rippling swim out frantically from his departing body. I am alone, shivering and wary, in this eerie paradise. Without him, it is frightening. There is no birdsong, no animals or other people. Just the sound of the water at my feet, and suddenly I am terrified.

I was not watching closely, I cannot simply 'dive'. What does he think I am, some kind of _fish_? I try to steady my breathing, try not to turn my back to anything at all, and that it when I hear it. Creeping up on me, rusting through the rich, fat earth and beautiful flowers. It is there, it never left me, never ever ever –

I turn, quick as a flash, and it pounces, I can smell it, and it chokes me, writhing and tumbling through the air towards me, such utter blackness, such utter bleakness –

I turn my back to it and dive.

**I'm not sure i made it very clear, but the two lakes are like flipsides. like head and tails etc. 'the coin effect' blahdiblah. two parallel worlds, one on top of the other.**

**ENJOY (that is an ORDER!)**


	30. Hide and Seek and Sleek and Snow

**Hello. Sorry it's been quite long but I've had loads to do ...anyway, enough of me.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this story. Not even a character. Not even a chapter. Not even a page. Not even a line.**

**Authors can't © words themselves, can they? **

**Anyway...**

It was like a dream when we returned. The snow still lay thick and crisp upon the frozen ground. The lake was icy cold, but, strangely enough, I was quite warm and dry as I returned to the real world. I could hear the crackle of feet upon twigs in the forest, and I turned, but Kartik had already melted away.

Felicity emerges, sodden and glaring. She is barefoot and without her dress. I would laugh at her bedraggled appearance but she seems curiously agitated, glancing this way and that for something that I have not seen, have not heard.

"Fee? F-Fee?"

"What?" she is vague and disorientated, whipping her head back round to meet my gaze questioningly. I smile a little uncertainly at her, and then the real danger overpowers me.

How long have I been gone? I cannot remember seconds, minutes, hours. My mind is new, fresh as spring and painfully clean.

"F-Fee? What are you doing?"

"There was someone here."

"Oh?" I am thinking that she heard Kartik, but I do not bother to voice the thought. It will be forgotten, float to the bottom of her mind and further until swallowed up by inky ice.

"Shouldn't we be getting back?"

"Where?" I am irritating her, it is clear.

"The school?"

"But our game?"

What game? What am I playing, unwitting and unknowing? I frown, until she smiles in annoyance and speaks to me as though I were a child.

"Hide and Seek."

The words are familiar – I remember hiding from my mother as a child, alone on the streets of India, giggling and crouching low so she cannot see my shadow. I can taste it, rich spices and heady scents that make your head swim, that make the world twinkle and blur.

India.

"Felicity ... I want to go back to Spence now."

And the way she looks at me makes me feel as though I have failed her.

I am warm and dry once more. I think snow is better enjoyed inside than out. It looks so pretty and peaceful from the gentle glow of the Great hall, where we sip cocoa and laugh about safe things. "The Realms, Gemma! We could have snow!"

I have had enough of snow.


	31. Fear

**Sorry about the numerous delays. Thankee to everyone who reviews – I'[m really sorry, I myself do not do it often enough, but I will make a big effort not to be so antisocial :D. Loves yas all.**

Kartik does not approach me for days, until days turn into weeks and I am frozen solid. December falls, thick and drab, as tall and slender flowers the colour of the snow push their heads above the surface of the rock hard earth.

Christmas is near. Pippa has her dress, her dress the colour of the snow also. It seems everything is white these days.

Everything except the blackness.

It has not approached again, and I do not seek it. Instead I stay amongst friends, amongst friends and teachers and the delightful Cecily, whose upturns nose wrinkles every time she sees me. I do not care. I care for very little these days.

My time with Kartik has left me empty and aching. He was everything to me, and now he is gone. Nothing and no one will ever be able to replace him. I will marry, I suppose, some portly, balding, painfully boring character, who will talk about politics and brandy and inheritances, and I will grow beaky and pale and gossip in hushed voices about who has disgraced who, which society girl is rumoured to be with child, and I will dutifully pretend to love him and that will be enough.

What terrifies me most is the thought that this could be true. I could grow, I could learn, to accept this as my given fate. When I think of it, my heart becomes an animal, roaring and clawing at the bars of its cage, determined never to bend to anyone else's will. Yet sometimes, when I am alone and truthful, the future seems a comforting place. No Kartik and no problems and no secrets and no lies and no heartache and no magic and no gypsies.

Not one.

Pippa cries silently every day. Sometimes we cannot see the tears, but we know what she is doing to herself. Torturing her very soul with the thoughts, the possibilities, that she missed. The idea that if her mother were to listen, to really listen, maybe, maybe, she would take pity.

"I am writing to her daily, promising and threatening everything under the sun, but she will not take notice. But I know that maybe, just maybe, if I write one letter, one perfect letter which tells everything in faultless eloquence, then she will listen. She has to! I'm her daughter, she loves me, she wouldn't wish for me to be unhappy, it's all just a mistake, she thinks I'm just nervous, but I'm not, I'm really not, I can't stand the man, really I can't. But she doesn't know that, that must be it. She will break of the engagement immediately. She will, I know it, she loves me, she wouldn't want me to marry a man that I despise, she loves me...

"Doesn't she?"

And the most heartbreaking thing of all is that none of us can answer that question.

* * *

Felicity grows silent and surly in the days leading up to the wedding. She visits my chamber every night, and we steal away together, just to be. Pippa can think of nothing else, and Ann...

Ann has grown pinched and pale. And I know why. When Pippa marries, she will leave the school, leave and be a wife for evermore. And Ann believes that Felicity and I will no longer want her, and it shames me to admit that sometimes she is right.

Felicity and I need each other. I could not live without her ice-cold fingertips, her white gold hair, the way the moonlight plays on her arched back as we swim. The lake water tonight is icy, and Felicity has already undressed. She tease me from the water, and I stare mesmerised at the way is slips over her skin like the smoothest of velvet, the sheerest of silk.

I undress, bashfully still, and hurry to the waters edge. Although the water stabs me with a thousand silver daggers, I am glad of the cover it gives me body. Felicity does not swim over immediately, but lingers further in, goading me to follow her.

The lake still scares me. I do not know that, if we get closer to its centre, or we swim down deep enough, we will still remain here on this earth. Because whatever happens, I cannot face that world again. I cannot face the blackness again.

People need to embody fear, I understand now. They call them monsters or witches or demons. They call them ghouls or ghosts or vampires. Sometimes they are werewolves, and sometimes they are spiders, and sometimes they are creatures even more frightening.

But fear is not a person. Fear is not even a creature. Fear is something that rushes at you, claws its way down your throat and leaves you choking and broken. Fear slithers over you, and sometimes it seduces you, and it beckons you on to wild and foolish things. Fear is something that I cannot escape from.

Felicity is white.

**More in a mo**


	32. My Felicity

She laughs across to me, her sound floating like a ribbon on the wind.

"Come in further, Gemma. The waters fine!"

The water is not fine. The water has never been fine.

"Come on, Gem. Come, my Gemma darling." She laughs again, and I wonder at why I like this girl. Then I hear a gasp and know instantly what has happened.

"Felicity! Felicity!" my voice is savage and wild as I scream her name. But instead of hearing the resounding silence that I had expected, I feel a cushioned thud fall in the form of a kick to my naked shin, and a cold and dripping hand clamped to my mouth.

"You blasted fool, Gemma Doyle. Now they definitely now it's us."

Who? What? Surely there is some mistake. Surely this cannot be my Fee holding me tight, this must be some watery demon planning to carry me back to the depths. I thrash, my mind atumble and panic flashing in my eyes. And then I hear the voice and everything is alright because he is back and I am safe and he is so soft and gentle and powerful still, he held me tight and whispered into the curls of my hair words that I can never forget, words which have no meaning and yet mean everything to me.

My gypsy.

"Gemma? Gemma, is that you? Are you aright? What on earth are you doing?"

"Is it your gypsy boy, Gemma?" Felicity whispers into my ear, and I nod, dumbly. He who I have not seen for weeks. He who has to stumble upon me at this hour, in this place, wearing this amount of clothing.

Blast and damn it.

Felicity does not push me forward, for she is far too powerful to owe our escape to me. She swims elegantly back to the shallows, and stands with more dignity than I could muster. I can hear Kartik murmuring his apologies, and I know he is blushing and averting his eyes.

"Look at me."

Silence.

"Look at me, gypsy."

Silence. I am struggling in the water, trying to reach them, trying to stop this happening.

"I said Look. At. Me."

"Felicity, stop this!" I know I am sounding hysterical, but she is doing what I did not believe her capable of. My body is perfectly fine, but hers is whiter than the moon, pale and perfect and porcelain fresh. Her hair reflects the moonlight back into my eyes, and I know her grey orbs are boring into his flesh. I know he will love her, and I know that I could never compare to my Felicity.

"What is this? A gypsy who will refuse to take advantage of an innocent little schoolgirl? Never. Surely not."

"I am here to speak to Gemma."

"Gemma is naked. And drowning at the moment, it sounds like. So you will have to talk to me."

"Felicity, stop it, stop it, please, oh god, please stop it." My voice is half submerged in bubbles and the water is lapping the tears from my face like an overenthusiastic puppy, but I care for none of this. He is my gypsy, and he will not be hers.

"Gypsy, tell me, what is your name."

"Kartik."

"Hmm. Kartik. Would you like to swim?"

"No."

"I am sure that you are lying. Come swim with me, and play with me, gypsy boy."

"I wish to speak to Gemma."

"Gemma doesn't want you. She never has."

And it is these words that cause the ice to fill my lungs.

"Felicity, oh god, Fee, that is a lie, stop lying, you are lying, stop, stop-"

And then she turns to me, and I am confused, as for a moment, on that hateful face, with the cold grey eyes and mocking smile, on that face coated in malice and dripping with spite, just for an instant, I could swear I saw a flash of tears.

But I must be mistaken, for Felicity is marble and marble never cries.

"Gemma?"

"Yes?"

"I need to talk to you."

But the tears of Felicity's face make me pause, because I love her and I need her to be happy.

"Come and swim, Kartik. The water's fine."


	33. THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER BUT READ ANYWAY

**Heyloo:**

**This isn't another instalment by the way. I want to explain a few things about the characters in this fanfic. A couple of people have expressed confusion as to motivations etc, and I just want everyone to understand.**

**I guess the characters aren't identical to the original ones, and what you make of that is up to you. I recognise the fact that some of them may be acting a little ooc, but this is down to how I see these characters in my own head. To me, AGATB and RB are almost fairytales – not just in the story, but in some of the characters too. So this is just to put across how I see the characters.**

**Gemma – Gemma is confused, lonely and racked with guilt. In one sense, she wants to be the perfect and dutiful daughter, pleasing Tom and the rest of her family, and she wants this because she is almost seduced by the idea of a safe and predictable life. However, in her heart, she knows she will never be happy with this, and this knowledge pains her too. However, as well as wanting to make her family proud, Gemma also has to cope with her developing sexuality and her friendship pressures. In this, she resonates strongly with modern day teens. There is also the problem of Kartik (although he wouldn't be a problem with me :D). She is in love with him, and in my head, she is meant to be with him, but that doesn't mean that the path to love is smooth. She feels shame and guilt when she has been with him or thought of him, because of the way she has been brought up to view 'people like him', and, of course, the way society functioned at that time. But when she is with him, she realises that she doesn't give one about everyone else. So it's complicated.**

**Felicity – Felicity is the most fascinating character to me, mainly because no one can understand why she behaves the way she does. She has so many different levels. The one I'm going to explain first is her whole blatant flirting with you know who (no, not Voldermort, although that would certainly be interesting).**

**What you have to know is that, in this fanfic, Felicity was still molested by her father when she was younger. She feels extraordinary guilt about this, and her way of dealing with it has been to basically become a nympho. I know this might sound insensitive, but there it is. Felicity, as so many girls do in this day and age, find comfort and perhaps even security in sex. She knows that they don't really love her, but that's not what it's really about. She's punishing herself for something that isn't her fault.**

**In the last chapter, Fee has to deal with a lot of crap. Her best friend is being married off to some letch and she can do nothing about it. And it scares her. And she sees Gemma, who is not as beautiful as her, and, in her eyes, not as seductive, in love, and loved by, someone who does not respect her (Fee). This is screwing her up. She tries to regain a bit of power by trying to seduce him, but she knows that it will never work. It's a kind of suicide, and this type of social behaviour is very difficult for most people (including me) to understand. It's almost like self-harm. Everyone in the story thinks that Fee has the easiest time of it – Ann is poor, Pippa has to get married, and Gemma is in love with someone she can never be with – and has lost her mother and sister. Fee doesn't seem to have any problems compared to them, but she just keeps them hidden under the surface. Felicity needs to feel as though someone wants her, and she thinks she has truly found this is Gemma, but then Gemma falls in love, and Fee feels rejected once more. SO, in doing this, Fee is trying to hurt Gemma, hurt herself, and, I guess hurt Kartik. It's her way of saying that she doesn't want to be the only one who gets hurt. In some way, Fee is in love with Gemma (just not in a sexual way – at least, not yet). She feels she has found someone that she can finally trust. But then Gemma seems to have more important things to worry about, like stealing off with Kartik in the middle of a game of Hide and Seek. In some ways, Gemma is being quite insensitive, but she never deserves what Felicity puts her through in the lake. **

**I can't explain Felicity in words, which probably makes this whole business redundant, but I've tried anyway. She is the most secret character, even though she seems out on the surface. There's a lot more to Felicity, and I really want to explore her. Not, however, in the same way that I want to explore**

**Kartik – Kartik is a strange character to me, because sometimes I'll have days when I'll seen him as really shallow and two dimensional, and then I'll feel guilty and want to lock myself away in a room with him (and APOLOGISE – using my mouth and his tongue :D). Kartik loves Gemma, but he kinda hates her too. He doesn't understand how she can love him one minute and be ashamed of him the next, and this is why he pushes her away and then comes running back again. He is confused. (Gosh, wasn't that enlightening?) He hates the fact that he is a gypsy, and then he hates the fact that it is an issue between them. In his heart (of hearts) he knows that the way she sees the world isn't her fault, but he has no one else to blame, so go figure. **

**Kartik is passionate and a very sexual character. He sometimes uses sexual intimidation to get Gemma to do as he wants (in the earlier chapters), but this gives way to the actual love that he begins to feel towards her. But he also feels as though he is taking advantage. Which leave him in between the boulder and the rigid area (d'ya see what I did there?). Anyway, Kartik is a man, and, as much as we would all like him to be perfect, he can be seduced. He doesn't like Felicity – he thinks she is desperate – but he admires her body all the same, and her very suggestive nakedness (as if nakedness can never be suggestive – at least, when Felicity's involved) causes a certain ahem.**

**Sorry – getting carried away but Kartik's ahem.**

**Anyway, Kartik loves Gemma – Felicity loves Gemma – Kartik hates Felicity – Felicity wants lots of lovely sex with Kartik – Gemma wants to swim.**

**That's about it.**


	34. The Life I Might Have Had

**Back to real story now ******

Kartik stares at me as I smile through the darkness. There is something like disgust in his eyes. But I cannot care for him right now, because my perfect Fee is crying.

She, too, is gazing at me strangely. Almost thanking me. For what? For protecting her? For saving her the humiliation? I don't know.

"Kartik." There is almost a plea in my voice as I watch him move. His eyes remain locked onto mine. But I love him and Fee and I want to drift away with them both. And I don't know how to do that and so I suppose this is the next best thing,

"Gemma, have you been drinking?"

The answer to that, surprisingly, is no. Felicity seems to have an endless stash of alcohol, brandy and whisky, and, my favourite, rum, hidden somewhere in the school, and we have been, I will admit, drinking regularly. But not tonight.

The locket weighs me down as I swim towards him. It is the only thing I have not removed. It hangs, heavy as water soaked linen, against my chest, and I stand next to my Felicity. The water covers me from my stomach downwards, and my dripping curls fall over my breasts, yet still I blush.

_He has seen you before, Gemma._

I know this to be true. Yet before he was not looking at me like this. There was love in his eyes. There was tenderness.

"Gemma, stop acting like a fool." He seems to be ignoring Felicity entirely, which is never a sensible thing to do. I can feel her bridle next to me, her indignation rising to the surface and melting into something else entirely. Indignation can be vulnerable. Anger less so.

"Kartik, I want you to come and swim with me."

"I don't want to swim."

"Then go away." This is Felicity; her eyes hard and sharp like shards of ice. Kartik seems ruffled, and glances this way and that, and it stings me how _her_ words have an effect on the man who professes to love me.

"Gemma..." he is pleading, but I am angry and wilful and selfish, and I turn my back. Felicity stays still, her front towards him, daring him, testing him, oh what fun our game's become.

"Swim, Kartik." My voice is huskier than usual, and I can feel him bend and break under my will. Under my power.

_Oh what strength and oh what power_

_Breaking bones and burning flowers._

The song is something that I recognise, but I know not where from. Kartik gives me one last glance, imploring and disgusted, and then shrugs. Relents.

He removes only his cloak before wading into the water. His loose cotton shirt billows around him, and then becomes drunk on the lake water and floats giddily down. He swears, mumbles something about the temperature, and then dives, like the sleekest of fish, under the glassy surface. His hair is dripping, his curls plastered into submission, when he reappears, shaking his head and swearing louder. Felicity giggles, high and girlish, and we swim over to him together.

"Gemma..." he is still pleading with me, and I am still ignoring him. He can no longer hurt me. I will not let him.

Felicity ducks down under the water to, her pale skin glowing eerily through the ripples. It unnerves me, and I am glad when she resurfaces some yards away. Rivulets of water spiral down out of her hair and across the gentle contours of her body. I gaze, unable to tear myself away, at her hard and dangerous beauty. Kartik sees me, and something flickers into life behind his eyes, and then he has me in his arms.

"Gemma, what are you doing? What game are you playing?" he is shaking me, and, once more, like so many other times when I have needed to feel real, my fingertips brush my locket and I am glowing and smoking and feeling.

"Kartik, Kartik, my beautiful darling Kartik." I giggle into the darkness surrounding us. Felicity seems nonchalant, floating on her back some way away. She is no longer here. It is like I am punch drunk and giddy, and Kartik is trying to hide me. Hide me all away.

"Kartik, love me. Please."

"What?"

"Love me. Now."

"I do..."

"Show me. Prove it."

"How can I do that?"

"I think you know exactly how to do that." My voice does not falter or waver. I need to know what it feels like to be loved, just once more. Just once more, and then I can forget him and everyone else and marry a man called Charles or John or something safe, and live in a nice house in the city with two girls and a boy and perhaps a basket of kittens, and I can go to lunch at the prestigious clubs, can wine and dine with the finest of people, can dance, lit by twinkling candlelight and slowly broken by insipid conversation and portentous announcements of marriage and death and who cares about a thing because I have a gypsy boy and he is all I need.

And he is real.

And that is the end of it.

"Miss Doyle, I must assume that you are not suggesting what I think you are?"

"I am suggesting that indeed."

His face is a mask of shock and uncertainty, as he looks between Felicity and I. I wriggle until I am pressed against his body, until he can feel my every rise and fall, until he can smell my scent and taste my lips and glide away with me on fragile sugar spun dreams that have not a hope in the world of surviving, but that will never truly die.

And he loves me.


	35. Deadly Beauty

As the days pass, I think about Evelyn's words to me. _Do not lay your trust in pretty things, Gemma._

Surely she could not mean Pippa? My darling Pippa, who is to be married in one week from today? Surely not. My darling Pippa.

And so, like the proper English girls we are, we pretend not to notice the days slipping by, the hours falling through our grasp as we try to catch hold of them. We do not try to create more time than we have. We know that some things are not possible.

We visit the realms often, most nights. Felicity and I have not mentioned the night of the lake since we stumbled, dripping and strangely glum, back up to the school that evening. Indeed, Felicity wanders off purposefully by herself most nights in the realms. The statue is still there, carved perfectly, watching my movement with large and mocking eyes.

This is no longer a haven for me.

I don't think it is for anyone.

Ann is pinched and pale, and Pippa sullen and pouting. I catch sight of Felicity's white gold hair through the trees on several occasions, hear the ribbon of her laughter float on the breeze to where I am laying in the sweet grass. Blushing daisies tickle my bare calves as the stems sway. I am alive.

Surely that should feel important to me? Just a bit?

No.

I do not hear the laughter that fell so plentifully during our first visits. I hear stifled sounds, but cannot be sure if they are giggles or sobs. I don't really care.

We come here to escape, and now even here is not far enough. Perhaps if we were to stay forever, perhaps if we were to forget everything out there. None of us have parents who love us, who care for us. They pack us away to school because they have too much money and not enough love, that is the problem. That is always the problem.

Miss Moore tries to engage us in art, but to no avail. She seems at a loss for what to say. Everyone is. Firstly she congratulated Pippa, and then noticed the tears and fell silent. It's what we all do.

We are English, after all.

_Do not lay your trust in pretty things, Gemma._

What did she mean? Why she did have to speak so cryptically, and then leave me crying, desolate and alone, watching her blurred and tumbling figure fade behind the waterfall. My darling, sister. My darling mother.

Now all I have left is Tom and father.

Tom is working in the city, proud and haughty as ever. I occasionally get word of him, through letters sent as an after thought. _Goodness, we haven't written to Gemma in quite a while. I suppose I should do something about that._

Father is a husk. His papery voice and papery face haunts my dreams. I see him, sunken and humiliated, lying in some hospital bed, crying out for his darling wife, the darling daughter that he lost all those years ago. He doesn't give a thought to the darling daughter that he still has.

Second best is bitter.

_Do not lay your trust in pretty things, Gemma._

Pippa. Not Ann. Not Felicity, even though she is beautiful. Who else? What else could she have meant? What do I trust that is pretty? Kartik? He certainly in beautiful, but it can't be him, it surely can't. My fingers unconsciously twist my locket on its fine chain, spiralling it round and round and round and round.

And round and round and round.

Pattern and rhythm. They don't make me calm, but they make me real. Songs and lines and snatches of melody, something that I can repeat, can hold onto and create again and again.

My locket twirls faster, spinning almost impossibly fast, one way and then the other. Such beauty.

_Do not lay your trust in pretty things, Gemma._

Such deadly beauty.


	36. Pippa

**I'm not very happy with this one ... it seems to change track halfway through and I'm not really sure how that happened. Anyway ... all will be revealed if you jsut stick with me. promise. Don't slate me too bad. Or i may never update. ever. ever again.**

**ever.**

**the story: (EVER)**

The locket.

It has always been the locket.

I tear it form my neck, horrified. The chain spills into my pain, ripped apart by my fumbling fingers. I can feel the smarting of the chain grooves in the back of my neck.

_Do not lay your trust in pretty things, Gemma._

Not Pippa. Not Kartik. Not even a person. The locket.

"Felicity! Ann! Pippa!"

They emerge, glum and grey, their eyes only slightly questioning. They do not care that I am screaming, my voice shrill and panicky. None of us care about anything anymore.

"The locket. That's what she meant. The locket."

"What about it? Who?" Their voices come as a flurry, drowned out by each other, by the incessant burbling of the river and the piercing voices in my own head.

She meant it to trick you they all did they all did Evelyn was evil and so was your mother and now they've trapped you and you will live here and die here and become lifeless and grey and broken here and you will never see the real world again, never see Spence or your father or London at dawn, or taste the spices of India spinning through the hot air and you will never ever see him again.

No.

"We need to leave."

"What?"

"No!"

"Gemma, I was in the middle of something." Of course, this is Fee, frustratingly calm and unruffled as usual.

But not quite unruffled. There are leaves and twigs clinging to her hair, and there is a slight rip in her bodice. I hear the throaty voice of a man through the trees calling for his beloved Fee. I narrow my eyes at her and she stares back. She does not care.

None of them do.

"Gemma, are you alright?"

"Maybe you need to sleep a little, I can magic you a bed and some blankets-"

"Gemma, stop acting like a child, you're just looking for attent-"

"No!"

My voice silences all of them, even the hoarse caller through the trees. I am standing, shaking and glaring, and wondering how they can refuse to take me seriously. Don't I know as much as them? Don't I know more?

"The locket ... it's bad, Evelyn warned me, but I just didn't realise what she meant. And we might be trapped here, we need to return to Spence and destroy the locket and never think of it again, I swear that's what we have to do."

"Never come here again?" Pippa is pouting, petulant and spoilt as always. She deserves what's coming to her, I think for just a fleeting second, and it's like she has read my mind. She recoils, as if I have slapped her, and I realise that the words have spilled from my lips. They are all gazing at me, abhorrent.

Not Felicity. Of course not Felicity. She is smiling at me in her curious way, like she is proud of me, proud of the monster that I have become.

"Pippa, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry-" but she has run from me already, the tears pouring down her cheeks like the sweetest and saddest of rain, and she is slipping and stumbling over wet moss and slimy stones. The man that was lying with Felicity steps into her path, bewildered, and she reaches out and pushed him away, but it is like with her touch her melts away, breaking into a thousand pieces and dissolving back into the magical earth from which he sprung.

"Pippa!" It is not just I this time. We all see where she is headed. The waterfall, the constant stream of magical water that draws you near and holds you captive. This is not what Pippa wants.

I grasp the locket tight in my fist, fly on feet of silver across stepping-stones in the water, and grab at her billowing dress as she leaps for the curtain of water.

"Pippa, no!"

Ann.

She is standing there, plump and plain and dowdy Ann, Ann with her pasty skin and watery eyes and pointed nose, Ann with her stutter and blinking and uncertainty. Ann.

Ann has never been powerful, and she never will be. But there is something about Ann that captures Pippa. Maybe it is her appearance – maybe Pippa secretly yearns to be ugly, so that she will not be leered at and slimed over by balding men twice her age, who all have one thing on their minds and only want our beautiful Pippa to be naked and perfect, writhing in between silk sheets beneath their own portly bulks. They only want her to parade on their arms. They only want her to pretend to love them. To want to show them how she loves them.

We all know how it happens. Rumours swapped between the boldest of girls, snatches of paper with carnal drawings, gossip from the city and listening at the door to your parents dinner party, hearing them discuss such atrocities.

We all know what happens.

Even Pippa.

And it terrifies her.

But she is in my arms, sobbing and sobbing and it doesn't seem like she will ever stop, because she is only sixteen years old and she has to be married in one week's time.

Ann is crying, and I am crying, and Felicity is still standing smiling at me.

And I used to think she was human.


	37. Kisses

We return from the realms, each of us trying not to touch the cold, smooth metal, each of us secretly knowing that we have to. We have to trust it. Even Fee.

Pippa collapses into Ann's arms the moment we arrive back. The locket is left in a pool of silver snaking around on the marble floor. I do not know what to do with it.

Felicity is watching me. She does not speak, she does not approach. She simply watches. And then all of a sudden, she is gone, leaving behind a scent of her skin and a ghostly whisper of a laugh.

"Pippa, I love you. You know that. It must have been the magic, I swear, Pip, just the magic. I don't know what made me say that. But we can't go back anymore."

She does not complain. She is too lost for that. Ann supports her upstairs, guides her into their bedroom, empty and eerie and completely devoid of Felicity. I slide my fingers across the familiar worn door, feel the dents where the wood has been banged and slammed from arguments and insolence from years past.

Perhaps some of them are Felicity.

They probably are.

Ann does not speak to me as we make our way back to our own, infinitely more modest, bedroom. Then, at the door, she stops, her hand caressing the cold metal of the doorknob. I can see how nervous she is, she how much this hurts her. But she knows she has to do it.

"How could you talk to her like that?" The words are not accusing – they are little more that a whisper. But, curiously enough, they sting more than a thousand insults from Felicity.

"I … I don't know. It hurt me as much as it hurt her. As it hurt anyone."

But Ann turns withering eyes upon me, withering, watery, furious eyes, and enters the bedroom. And I am left out here alone.

I stand for a very long time, simply staring at the wood of the closed door in front of me. I know it is blindingly simple – there is no lock, young ladies not allowed their privacy in this day and age. I could simply turn the handle and walk in. But something stops me. I think it is the realisation that I am not wanted in there. Ann does not wish to see me, to have to force her lips to spill forth idle chitchat that numbs our burning minds. She does not want me. And it stings so.

I slide down the door, my dress already grass stained and snagged, and becoming dusty and musty as I collapse. My head in is my hands and I am crying before I can atop myself. Becoming enraged at my own weakness, I try to control my ragged breathing, but all that I achieve is to end up breathing furiously, lightly and harshly. I can hear footsteps, undoubtedly some teacher or another come to check on the sobbing sounds emanating from the floor below. I stand, my hand flying to the doorknob, but with a flutter of relief in my chest, I realise that it is nothing more threatening that Felicity.

Some people may argue that there is nothing more threatening in this world that Felicity. I will leave it up to them.

She notices my tears, kisses them away and bites at my bottom lip. I sink into the kiss, grateful that for once I will have solace and comfort when I need it. Her fingers are on my corset strings, gently tugging them away from my lungs, and at last I can breathe. My dress falls to the ground, but I do not notice it, so in love am I with Felicity.

She breaks off, giggles, wipes her bottom lip with her thumb in a way that is irresistible. She knows it to be so. She knows everything there is to know, and I am ignorant.

"Gemma, Gemma, come with me. Let's steal away to somewhere else."

She is leading me around corners and down stairways, the hem of her dress enticingly close. I am standing in my petticoats, whispering and laughing as we rebel against everything we have ever known, rebel together, forever and always. Her arm is around my waist, her lips in my hair and on my mouth, and I want to kiss her back, trail my swollen mouth along her milky white neck, her porcelain pale thigh.

I want to kiss her.

I do not notice where she is leading me until we arrive there, and when we do I almost laugh aloud. The crevice in which we shared our first fevered kiss.

It is so much more than that now. We are addicted, and we love every second of it.

She draws me in, her breathy whisper a warm tickle on my collarbone. "Remember?"

"How could I forget?"

Her nimble fingers undress me, her lips all over my flesh and I lie back, with someone who loves me and who I love back. It is almost as good as being with Kartik. And twice as forbidden. I can feel her pearly teeth nip seductively along the inside of my naked thigh. I am with her.

And then we hear a sound and she sits up, her eyes wide with something that is not fear, but not amusement either. We see the flicker of candlelight, warm and yet it chills me to the bone. I can see the shadow approach us before I see the flesh and blood intruder. We make no effort to dress – it is far too late now, and anyway, we can hardly see our discarded clothing. And the footsteps draw closer, each ringing out what feels like my funeral march.


	38. The good Christian girl

The footsteps stop, we don't know how close. I shrink back into the shadows, desperately trying to conceal not myself, but my nakedness. Felicity seems unperturbed, making no effort to move back into the darkness. She is almost ... curious.

"Gemma? Is that you?"

It is him.

"Yes, Kartik, but, wait ... just a second!" I yelp frantically. If there is one thing worse than being caught naked in the middle of the night, then it is being caught naked by Kartik. Naked with Felicity, might I add.

"What is it, Gemma?"

I am flustered, throwing on my clothes, no time for my corset. I am dressed, but the clasps on my gown hang loose, and as I turn to Felicity for help, I notices she is still sitting as she was.

"Felicity! Get dressed!" I hiss as quietly as I dare. But she just smiles at me and sinks further back into the recesses of the crevice.

"He will be suspicious if both of us come out ... even if we both are fully dressed." There is a playful note in her tone, which frightens me to my very core.

"Well, then, stay right here. Don't make a sound, do you hear?"

And, kicking my corset into the darkness, I enter the main part of the great hall.

"Kartik?"

He is here. He is here and he is real.

"Gemma, what are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep." And it is not a lie, I couldn't. But it is not the truth, either.

"What is it?"

"I ... I just miss my mother terribly. Some days it hurts more than others. It ... it hurts a lot today." This is no lie, either. I do miss my mother; think of her every time I close my eyes. But recently she has been just a flicker. Just a quick, tugging sickening feeling, and then I can move on. This is what I am supposed to do. Move on.

"Gemma." Kartik is standing closer now, the candle flickering in his hand, illuminating his curls, his lips, the dark shadows under his eyes, the way he looks haunted.

"What are you doing here, anyway, Kartik?" I press my lips together, try to pretend that I am alone and a nice Christian girl.

"I have reason to believe that the school is under ... threat of some sort. From ... it doesn't matter."

And to my surprise, I find that it does not.

"Kartik..." I step still closer, relishing in the smell of his skin and the way I know every contour of his body. I don't want passion and movement tonight. I want to be close to him, to have him hold me and tell me he loves me. Because the one link I had to my mother is gone. My necklace is the cause of all my unhappiness. It still lies, in a pool on the floor, glinting in the silvery light form the window.

"Gemma... you need to rest."

"I need to be, Kartik." And with that, I reach out and extinguish the candlelight with a pinch of my finger and thumb.

I feel no pain.

I sleep fitfully, because the day after tomorrow, my dear Pip is being taken to London and is never coming back. I wonder what it feels like to suddenly find out how you are going to spend every single day of the rest of your life. To know that there are no more surprises, no more choices. Nothing real.

My Pippa is the object of my dreams. Kartik leads me to my room, kisses me gently on the end of my nose, and closes the door on me.

I am alone.

Pippa is crying, smiling and laughing and crying because she is broken. Mr Bartleby Bumble makes no effort to hide his leer as they step out of the church. Voices are hushed, because the tear tracks of the bride are evident. Her mother hurries her away, a terse word, a sharp slap, a motherly kiss.

I can see it all in my head. I know how it will go.

The worst thing is that I will not even be there to witness it. I have not been invited. I will never be able to see Pippa Cross again.

Pippa crying, empty and alone. Pippa crying, shying away from her husband. Pippa crying, naked under bedcovers, Bumble snoring away contentedly next to her.

Pippa crying Pippa crying Pippa crying.

I cannot stand it. I scream 'No!' and in an instant Pippa is gone, and my mother is there.

Instantly I am alert, hostile and tense as if to pounce. But she approaches me with her arms outstretched, my darling mother once more. I have grazed my knee, stung my calf, muddied my dress. I am six years old, and my mother is holding me.

"You are such a silly little girl, my darling Gemma. So impetuous. You know, you're wrong, after all. There's nothing working against you except you yourself. Not a silly piece of silver. A bauble on a string could never hurt you, Gemma."

I murmur, something indistinguishable, and she laughs. "It's no use to anyone. No, not even you. It's not real, you know, Gemma. None of it is. You have to know what you have yourself. What is running through your veins. The blood of a father who loved you to distraction and the blood of a mother who tried to do better. The blood of a brother embarrassed to love you, but who loves you nonetheless. The blood of a sister who wanted you unconditionally, who loved you through faith. Is that not amazing?"

Mother, darling mother, don't let go of me now.

"Gemma, you could throw that piece of decoration out, you know. Into a lake, into a battlefield. You could still go there. And no, it's not paradise, because imperfections are beautiful. You know that to be true. But it is good. It is good. There will always be work to be done, and you should not shirk it, because improvements are progress. Maybe one day, when it is good enough and safe enough, you will be able to save your father. But maybe not. Maybe you can save Tom. Maybe he doesn't deserve it. Maybe yes, maybe no, maybe maybe. It is for you to decide now.

"But if I can give you one piece of advice, my child, it is do not run away from what you fear. The monsters of our minds feed on fear itself. So starve them."

And then she was gone and my world was black.

But I know what I have to do.

When I wake I automatically reach for my locket, dangling lazily around my neck. It is not there.

I am hurrying the girls through the dawn-streaked rooms of Spence. Down corridors, round corners, tripping on steps and falling down stairs. A curious light hangs on us all, a grey, oppressive light that seems unnaturally piercing. It is stripping us raw; we are all naked to each other now. We know everything and everyone and everyone is terrified.

"Gemma, Gemma, wait!" I cannot distinguish between the voices of my friends. We are all hushed and sombre, hoarse from lack of sleep and lack of hope. We are all one person, and we are a thousand people.

"Gemma, what is it? What is it?" A tug on my nightgown, but I will not stop for anyone, I will not stop for anything.

"Gemma." And there it is. That sound that causes me to catch my breath in my throat and stumble on a loose thread of reason. Felicity.

"Gemma, was it something that you dreamt? Because, Gemma, dreams are nothing but dreams."

I turn, and this will be it. I will not pander to other wants, other desires, because I have done wrong, I have sinned, and if that means that I am going to Hell, then I shall welcome it with open arms. Because the man that is going to marry our Pip, he is a respectable church going man. The man broke my Felicity prays for an everlasting soul. The girls of the academy, the girls that mocked Ann, the girls that drove her despise herself. They love the Christian God; they call him Father.

They think he will save them.

And if this is what Heaven will be like – filled with all of those people – then I will take my chances with Hell. I will turn my back on everything I know, and I will never again be a good, nice Christian girl.

"Felicity. My mother was dead to me. And then she came back. I found a sister that I never knew I had. I was able to forgive, and be forgiven, by something so completely different that we cannot think of it, we cannot imagine it, for our minds will explode and everything we know will be gone.

"But would that be so bad?"

We all know the answer, and the answer isn't yes.


	39. Endings

The locket is lying in a little pool of malice in the sleepy light of dawn

The locket is lying in a little pool of malice in the sleepy light of dawn. Everything I see seems clearer, more precise until I feel I can see the very edges of the tiniest particles of every little thing. I feel I can truly know the depths of the souls of all of us. But I do not want to; we all have secrets that belong to us and us alone.

If you walk to the edge of something, you will find an end to the world you know, and a beginning to a world that you don't. If you choose to fall off the edge, perhaps you will find something to cling to. Perhaps you will not. But I know that I would rather be falling, than gazing into the immeasurable depths of what we are not supposed to question.

The necklace is nothing. It is useless. It was simply a way to encapsulate something that we did not understand. We could do things that no one else could, and we ourselves could not understand why, or how. So we put a name to it; call it magic. Call it sorcery or witchcraft or the word of the devil.

God and the devil, angels and demons.

Do you not find it strange that God and Devil are just letters away from good and evil? Embodiments.

But what we did not understand is that the power, the intense ability of our clean young minds ... it was _our_ minds, and nothing else.

_My_ mind.

For it is none of them. It is not even the necklace. The bauble on a string. It is in me, and I do not try to understand it, because I am young and foolish and I have an awful lot to learn. But I know that one day – one day, far off in the distant future – I may be able to begin to understand it all.

I know that that future is not here.

Walking under the waterfall was not right for Evelyn. It was right for her friends. Who knows what you will find on the other side? But what I do know is that they both seemed so happy. Happy, and at peace.

And that is enough for me.

Instead of us grouping around the locket, they hang back fearfully, and it is jarring to see the expressions on their faces. We no longer wear masks. Pippa looks broken, weary and indifferent. She seems as though she would not protest if the silver leapt up and began to strangle her with the intricate chain. Ann, on the other hand, seems completely terrified. The Ann, the meek and mild Ann, who used to hide behind a façade of dusty dignity, is gone. Ann the child is in her place. She looks younger, and, ironic as it may seem, the fear pools on her face as loveliness. She is pretty, and she is terrified.

I can see my face, reflected on one of the polished mirrors of the great hall. The dominating portraits scare me, the cracking oils and murky colours blending into one haughty, superior face. A mass of blonde ringlets drips like liquid light onto an ermine collar. The eyes are little smaller than my fist, and painted with such detail that I can feel the contempt streaming onto me as I stand in the gaze of a long dead aristocrat.

My eyes grow wide with fear, I realise. They are wide and green, like twin pools of water I could drown myself in. But I do not look lovelier when I am frightened, not like Ann. My face grows pale, alabaster pale, and although that may seem fashionable, to me it seems that I look dead, risen freshly from the ground to stop my heart for a second or two, every single time. My hair is not glossy and perfectly styled. I have not drenched it in sugar water, or tied it in rags, for there are more important things to do. It splays out like a mermaids tail over my back, down to my waist, and although it is wild, it is, to me, more beautiful than ever. I look free.

And Fee? Fee looks stripped, naked under my new gaze. Fee looks beautiful and white and black and gone. Felicity needs saving, but she must first save herself, and I cannot say whether it is already too late.

I approach the necklace, lining benignly on the marble. It looks beautiful too, and I remember how easy it was for me to believe, without question, that my mother was telling the truth, and a piece of silver really could contain so much. So much mystery, so much magic, so much...

So much choice. I could be anything I want, and yet know I want to be nothing more than myself. Than what I can do. What I choose to do with this power is what will make me, and, until now, I have been selfish, keeping it to myself, to myself and a select few. I wanted all of that love, that opportunity, that recklessness and giddiness that the power instilled in me. I wanted it all, and so many people went without. I helped myself. But did I ever really help even those I loved the most? My father, my brother, my dear, dear Pip.

And my Felicity.

The metal is cool to the touch, and no sparks fly as my flesh touches the silver, no burning sensations spreads through my palms and around my body. The magic is not there. It was never there. It was simply a way of letting it go, exploding of me in faith and belief in a god that didn't exist. In a power that didn't exist. I was fooled, and I am foolish, and I am glad.

"Pippa, Ann, it's alright. It was never ... it was never here. It was ... part of us, part of something hidden away that we could not decipher. The necklace will do you no harm. It will do you no good."

They hang back, weary and watchful, large eyes reflecting the oil paintings surrounding us. Shiny and cracked. We are all shiny, and we are all cracked. We are all new and broken. Imperfect.

"We cannot be expected to be perfect. And yet that is precisely what they ask of us. Why do they deserve it? Why do they deserve anything? Pippa, soon you will be married. Mrs Bartleby Bumble. You will leave us, leave Spence, leave your childhood rocking in a coffin. Pippa, can you swim against the current? Will you swim against the current?"

I know the answer before she closes her eyes and opens her lips. There is a breathy sigh, like a great pressure being released, like she is free to see the world again as though we are but children.

"Gemma, I am tired of struggling. I am tired of fighting. Do you know how draining it is for people to feel as though they have the right to own you? To decide how you will live your life, what will make you happy? I am so weary of swimming against the current. Please. Understand."

I close my eyes, swallow the panic pooling in my throat. We have all been so selfish. We have thought of ourselves and no one else. Now is not the time for _my_ pain, _my_ fears. This power, this ability, it makes me no better than anyone. It is what I do with the power that chooses. It is what I do with myself, my life that's matters.

"Pippa ... there is another way. You could be ... free. Happy. You could decide what makes you happy, and you could pursue it. There is another way, but not in this world."

She bites her lip, her white teeth resting on the petal pink skin. She knows what I mean. We all do.

"Pip, no, you can't!" Felicity is almost shouting, her eyes wide and wild and desperate. I can see how frantically she is trying to cling on to her past life, but what she does not know and cannot understand is that her past life is dead. She killed it.

"Felicity, we cannot be selfish about this. It is Pippa's choice."

"I will go with her!"

"Felicity!" My voice echoes around the dead old hall. She stops, staring at me, tears pooling in her eyes. She tries, furiously, to blink them away, but instead they spill haphazardly down her cheeks. "Felicity, you saw what happened to Evelyn. You saw what happened to my sister. You are not ready. It is not right."

"Gemma, please, please..." she is moaning as though I have hurt her, as though I have delivered the fatal stab wound and I am now turning away, leaving her alone on this hateful flagstone floor.

"I'm so sorry, Fee, but we cannot. We cannot trick ourselves, trick others, into believing we are different. We belong here. Pippa ... Pippa knows in her heart what is right for her. Whether she can bear to be Mrs Bartleby Bumble, whether she has the strength left to go on fighting."

"I don't."

The words are simple but Felicity cannot contain her panic. "Pippa, you can't, you can't leave me, Pip, oh, Pippa, please!"

It is the first time I have seen Pippa stronger than Felicity. I feel as if I should retreat, as though I am witnessing something humiliating and degrading and entirely private. Pippa does not know where to look, what to do. It has constantly been the other way around. After everything, it is Pippa that reigns. She is a princess at long last.

"Felicity. I love you. Know that, always."

The tears have stopped. Her face is waxy white, ethereal. Silver-gold hair spirals fiercely down her spine. Her eyes are empty.

"Oh, Fee." Pippa presses her lips together, the outer corners of her eyes curving downwards in dismay. Ann sits, a little way off from us, seemingly deep in thought. A lonely tear trickles from underneath her eyelid. I know what she is going to do. It terrifies me.

"We have to go. We must hurry." It is a lie. I simply cannot bear watching my friends destroy each other, themselves. Pippa nods, takes a deep breath and sighs. Smiles. Closes her eyes. She has never seemed so full of life.

We ignore the necklace, lying on the floor. Instead, we link hands. I can feel the magic begin to bubble, gently smouldering away inside me and trickling down my veins, across my fingertips, through my dearest friends. It is slower than before. I am having to concentrate twice as hard on the rising, falling feeling. But then it happens. The ground gives way beneath us, and I open my eyes for a second to see the serene, beatific smile of Pippa. This is what she wants.


	40. And Like That They Are Gone

We come to, as usual, on the dew-speckled grass where we first begun living

We come to, as usual, on the dew-speckled grass where we first begun living. The waterfall is closer, it seems. Closer and more beautiful than before. Felicity stands first, as though proving an unspoken point. She will not break. "Gemma, what do I do?" Pippa's voice is breathy and barely discernible. I take her hands. They are cold.

"Just ... just walk through the waterfall. That's all you have to do."

"But I can't see the other side!"

"No-one can, Pip. You have to make that choice. And ... it has to be the true desire of your heart ... you saw what happened to Evelyn. Trapped here for sixteen years. For you, it would be forever. I would not be able to help you, Pippa. You have to understand that. Mother and Evelyn had unfinished business that I was able to complete on their behalf. But ... I don't know that I could do the same for you."

"I understand. But, Gemma..." and here she breaks off and bites her lips, looking as if she may spill over into tears, "Gemma, what is on the other side?"

There is silence. A wavering, papery, fragile silence, and Felicity grabs hold of it as if it were a lifebelt. "Pip, we have no idea what's on the other side. It could be anything. It could all be a trap."

I break. "Felicity!" her heads whips round as though slapped. "Do not speak of it like that. It is where my mother and sister are." Her gaze does not falter, cool and unnerving, but I she will not disarm me. Not this time. "Felicity, we have to leave Pippa to make her own choice. We cannot be selfish. Not this time."

"What does that mean?" she cries, but I ignore her. Pippa is gazing away. "Ann?" Her voice is tremulous.

Ann turns to face us. Her cheeks are waxy with tears but her gaze holds us fast. "I have made my decision." And I know that so has Pippa.

Felicity gazes around at us all. Her large grey eyes hold fast onto Pippa, a longing, pleading forced into submission. She will not cry, now I know. I'm not sure if she would cry for any of us.

"Pippa. I love you."

I am not sure if there is anything more in what she says. She has spoken of Sapphists and the love between women but I am not sure if this is what she means. I am not sure that she loves Pippa like a friend or like a lover. I am not sure it matters. Goodbyes hurt. I have learnt that, I've had plenty of opportunity to learn that. Whether you are saying goodbye to family or friend, parents or child, brother or sister, husband or wife, guardian or lover ... they all sting unbearably. That is what it means to love.

"Gemma. I am ready. I wish to go." Pippa turns to me, that beatific smile once more in place. She seems at peace, gone from us, from her worry and fear and pain and suffering already. She takes Ann's hand and it is only now that Felicity realises what is happening.

"Not Ann too. Not Ann, Gemma, not Ann. Ann isn't leaving us too." She says it like a statement, but there is a curious waver in her words that conveys to me just how much she is breaking inside. "Please, Ann, please don't leave us also?"

"Felicity, what have I left in this world? I have no parents, money, prospects. I am going to become the silent governess of some beastly little children and never get married, never fall in love. Do you not realise that I want that as much as the next girl? As much as you?"

"But you can't leave us, Ann. Pippa is to get married within days. You have many more to change the course of your life. Don't give up now. Ann, I'm begging you."

"Felicity. You will have Gemma and I will have Pippa. Gemma will have you and Pippa will have me. No one will be alone. Because that is what we are all so terrified of. Being alone. Felicity. This is right for me."

"I will never get married." I believe Felicity when she says this. It makes me hope, a small quiet thing rising in the back of me, a fragile winged creature just out of reach.

"Ann. Pippa." I take their hands and kiss their cheeks. I do not want to let go. But I must. Pippa's eyes are full of tears, spilling down her smooth white cheeks, but Ann holds fast, solid with her decision, and I feel an overwhelming wave of tenderness for the dumpy, dour scholarship girl. She was my friend.

"Come, Pip. Let us go. It awaits." Ann takes the hand of her friend and I take the hand of mine, and Fee and I watch in silence and they move away, carefully over the mossy stones slick with weeds and water. In unison, they reach out and tough the flow of water and are gone, melting into the stream like they never even existed. I feel a strange urge to see what their bodies have become in the real world. Empty, broken, dead, gone? Have they ever really existed? Has anyone?

Felicity watches the water desperately, unwilling to prise her eyes of the constant rush and fall. I grasp her chin in my hand and feel the terror and isolation well up in her. Her mouth opens and she screams, so good and pure and true and broken that I do not know what to do. I stand there, my hand resting on her face as she cries for what she has lost. I cannot feel it yet.

We stumble blindly back through the fall of light and colour and sound and hope and arrive, panting and flushed, on the floor of the great hall. The bodies of Ann and Pippa lie nearby. They are still breathing.


	41. The State of Returning

I glance towards Felicity. She is staring transfixed at the rising chest of Pippa.

"It cannot be."

I stumble towards them, feel for the slight flicker of a pulse. It is there.

"It cannot be!" Felicity's eyes widen and I feel the hope spring to again, a sickening lurch in my stomach. I cannot bear to see her crushed once more. it has happened so many times.

"Fee... I don't know what to do."

"They... they are just asleep! Don't you see? None of it is real! None of it happened?" she grabs at my hands, my face, kisses me deeply and roughly. I want to push her off but find I haven't the strength. I don't think I ever did. So I relish it, the taste of her tongue, the feel of her breasts, the insistent pluck of her fingers at the strings of my corset, and I wonder that she always wants to kiss me after tragedy. In times of danger. It fits, somehow.

"Fee..." I break away, my breath caught in my throat. She gazes towards me expectantly, but I am not sure if she really sees me. Not anymore. "Fee... I don't think they will wake."

She does not understand at first, but then I see the glimmer of recognition in her eyes and it catches like tinder to a flame. She is scornful and it hurts.

"Are you so desperate to have me to yourself? To have them gone? Is that it?"

"Of course not, Felicity! But ... we saw them pass through! Both of us, both of them! It makes no sense."

"Neither does falling through reason, and yet we manage it surprisingly frequently."

She speaks the truth, and it stings unbearably. "Wake them, then. Try and wake them."

And of course she does, and of course they don't. But we drag them to their beds anyway, and it is unnerving, watching the chest of Ann rise and fall in the bed next to me, yet knowing that the real Ann – the true Ann – is so very far away.

Of course, when I rouse Brigid early the next morning and tell her that Ann won't wake, it is confirmed. They are gone, fully gone, and we will never have them back. And that is when I cry. Brigid soothes me, patting my hand and mumbling reassuring phrases into empty air – "no need to cry love, just a fever, awake again in no time, back on her feet tomorrow, I'm sure of it" – but over the days, when neither will wake, and they are sectioned, for fear of having a rare and contagious illness, her reassurances stop. I often see her, pausing outside the door the to sanatorium, gazing wistfully through the clouds of masked doctors and white nurses, trying to glimpse her little Ann. It hurts far more than I expected it to, and it is then that I realise how our actions will affect so many. It is a curious feeling, half-guilt. I think I may drown in it.

Felicity does not mention travelling again to the realms, and neither do I. It seems to have become an unspoken word between us, and now we will only talk of clear and happy, shiny and new, the forward, the future, the light. I see the desperation in her eyes each morning, when we are all given the same announcement – "Still no news, I'm afraid" – and I feel the tug in her voice as she controls herself. It is strange, how Felicity refuses to abide but society's rules about things such as sexuality and education and women's rights, but will not allow herself to feel emotion. Feel sad, or betrayed, or even hopeful.

After they have been gone one week, and then three days after that, and then a fortnight after that, and then a day later, Ann returns.

Pippa does not.


	42. Choice

Her face is bleary and blurry and she seems disorientated for an alarmingly long time. "Gemma? Fee?"

"We're here!" we hiss, for we heard news of her progress this morning and have been begging them to allow us to speak to her, just for a moment.

"What... what happened?"

"We want to ask you the same thing!" Felicity leans dangerously close to Ann, and I see the hatred and resentment pooling like poison in her eyes. Why Ann? Why not Pippa? Surely not Ann.

"We ... we got to the waterfall and crossed. And it was blindingly white, Gemma, so very white. You couldn't see anything, not even your hand in front of your face. I _had_ no hands. I had no _body_. It was just me and my thoughts spilling over into something else entirely. I could feel Pippa next to me, the weight of her decision and then suddenly there was this feeling inside of me as though I had made the wrong choice. As though there was something worth fighting for with you. But I could tell that Pippa had made the right choice. And I felt her happiness flood into me and, oh, it was the most glorious feeling ever, Gemma! Fee! She was ... oh, so at peace."

"But ... how did you get back? Without the magic? How did you do it?"

"Once I'd made my decision, I realised that that was what Evelyn was talking about. The Choice. Endless choice. Pippa had it too, she could come back to us, but she chose not too. And she chose wisely. If we had made the wrong choice, I fear we would have been stuck in the light forever." Ann's eyes flicker closed, and then she turns her head and gazes sadly at the sleeping form of Pippa, already dead and yet still breathing, on the bed beside her.

I can see felicity turn away, so that the angry tears of injustice fall unnoticed. But I can feel the question inside her head. What was so bad about the light, Ann? Why could you have not stayed there forever? Why must you come back and bring this grief back to me a hundredfold?

"Too much light can render you blind, Fee. Sometimes, we can see so much that we do not see at all." I mean to be a comfort, but I watch her shake off my embrace and crouch low on the bed beside Pippa.

"Ann, but how did you get back?"

"I stepped out of the light, and saw Pippa. Dancing with flowers in her hair with some handsome fellow in chain mail. She was crying with happiness, Gemma."

"But how did you get back, Ann?"

"That was my Choice."

After one week, Ann rejoins us in class. The other girls whisper and murmur behind palms and stare wide-eyed when she passes them in corridors. Some of the more ignorant creatures, including Cecily Temple, step back when she approaches, terrified of catching some hideous disease. Ann smirks. I think she is rejoicing in this newfound power. The power of fear. There are so many different kinds of power, some better than others. But who has the right to judge?

Felicity does not tell us what she is going to do before she does it. I think that is her way. But I am beginning to accept that we all have flaws, fundamental imperfections, that, curiously, make us beautiful. In our own quiet ways. None of us will ever be as beautiful as Pip. But I am beginning to believe what my mother said about beauty. In her own way, Pip was cursed.

She brings us to the sanatorium. The nurse on duty has fallen asleep in her chair. Her ample chest rises with each snore, and her lips ripple slight with each breath that she passes. So terrifying, to think that each breath we take leads us ever closer to death. To eternal stillness.

Felicity crouches by Pippa's bed. Her cheeks are slick with tears, but her gaze is firm, and I love her for it. With one swift motion, she kisses Pippa. The kiss is deep, and it means something, and I realise Felicity once loved Pippa as she now loves me. As I now love her.

"Pippa, you have earned your peace." The simple words are enough. With one broken and beautiful sigh, Pippa's breathing stills. There are some kinds of magic left in this world, and this is one of them.

When the nurse wakes, Pippa will be dead, and we will mourn her then.

Later that night, I slip out and make my way to Kartik's tent. And then we make love, broken, dying, hopeful love. And I fall asleep in his arms and know that I will never be anywhere safer.

Felicity does not smile or laugh for days. But inside her, I can feel a kind of release. A cage that has been locked tight for so long has finally been wrenched open, and what she initially saw as pain is, instead, hope. We can all hope. When everything else has been lost, only hope remains.

And I have made my choice.


End file.
